


The P.A.

by SmiggleWiggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kisses, M/M, Season 3 Spoilers, Torture, crime solving with sherlock and john and winnie and greg and mycroft and all of your favs, everything after the empty hearse is my own stuff, i don't know if that's actually a trigger warning, i guess, i need to stop it with these tags and see if my pictures work, i'll put it as a legit tag just in case, it's gon' be swell, love you, not sure about sherlock and john being a thing yet, oh yeah this starts from the empty hearse and doesn't include john and mary's wedding and all that, so... tw: torture?, there's gonna be some torture, trigger warning: torture, tw: torture, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7701100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmiggleWiggy/pseuds/SmiggleWiggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just your typical tale of a woman who likes to live dangerously, and finds an ad in the paper from Sherlock Holmes requesting a PA. The intriguing part, however, was that PA was not defined as personal assistant. Winnie Reeves will find out exactly what Sherlock meant by PA as time goes on.<br/>Let's join her on this adventure, shall we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions and Interviews. Sort Of.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! How's it goin'? Good? Sweet.  
> If you took the time to read all those tags, you'll know that I'm not very good at this. I've only published one other story on Ao3, and it has literally nothing to do with Sherlock. At all. It's about the American Revolution.  
> Anyhow, I finished reading Performance in a Leading Role a few weeks ago and I started rewatching Sherlock from season 1 and I was like... "Huh. This is really good. I want to write a fiction of my own, this is so good."  
> So, that's what I'm doing with this. Kind of fun, right?  
> I promise that only the first... I don't know... three or so chapters are going to suck. It's just because I had no idea how to get the lovely female character I came up with into the story without using The Empty Hearse's story line.  
> I know, I'm terrible. I'm so sorry, Molly.  
> It gets better, I promise. I also learn how to write certain characters if I include canon story, and so... I think learning from Empty Hearse is going to make the rest of the fiction more enjoyable, especially since me writing as Sherlock is probably the greatest fucking thing I've read since...  
> Uh...  
> Well, it's not that great, actually, but I'm pretty proud of it, because I never, not in a million years, thought I'd be able to write Sherlock with even a semblance of his character bleeding through. It's an accomplishment.  
> I'm going to stop rambling now and get into the canon stuff so you can read through the boring and get to the fun. Although, I do recommend reading the canon, because you won't understand the fun if you don't...  
> Sorry 'bout that.  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy!

The paper rustled as it was flipped over, and Winnie cringed at the sound. After her last interview had fell through, the last thing she wanted to be doing was looking for yet another job to apply to and not get. 

Sadly for Winnie, her best and only friend Mariah Hoover was not giving her any breaks. 

“Ah, look,” she started. “A museum’s looking for a night guard.” Mariah glanced over at Winnie, and saw that her friend had her head buried under her arms on the counter top. “Could be fun. You do like art.” 

“Nope,” Winnie decided. “Not interesting.” 

Mariah let out an exasperated huff. “Winifred, you cannot go on acting like this,” she said. “You need a job.” 

“I don’t want any of these jobs,” Winnie exclaimed. “Hotels, bars, restaurants… dammit, Mariah, I need something exciting.” 

Mariah swallowed her comment about Winnie not even having to worry about finding a new job if she hadn’t bogged up her previous one, and instead continued to examine the paper. “I think the museum could be good,” she tried. “What if the exhibits come to life like in that one movie that starred the American actor with the giant ears?”

“Mariah…” Winnie groaned into the counter. 

“All right, all right,” Mariah sighed. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” She spotted an ad, and read it over to herself, before blinking and reading it again. She then cleared her throat and casually turned the paper over, debating on whether or not she should show the ad to her friend. It was the perfect job, one Winnie wouldn’t say no to, but did Mariah really want to deal with a let-down 30-something when the job fell through? 

She glanced over at Winnie again, and exhaled. Her friend had raised her head, her red hair falling into her brown eyes, which were downcast and gloomy. She needed a job, something with actual work, and the ad that Mariah had just found would give that to her. 

“Winnie,” she started, flipping the paper over again. “Take a look at this one.”

Winnie sighed, but looked down at the paper all the same. She blinked when she saw what Mariah was trying to show her. 

“What is that?” she asked after a moment. 

“A job,” Mariah answered. “One that should live up to your… standards.” 

“Lovely,” Winnie breathed, reading the ad over again. “Bloody brilliant!” She sprang up out of her chair, and spun around a bit in excitement. “Yes! Oh, God, yes. It’s perfect.” 

“I know,” Mariah said, “which is why I didn’t keep it hidden from you, as was my first thought.” She gestured to to the ad. “It says no calling. You’re suppose to just show up.” 

“Yes,” Winnie agreed, grinning. “My sort of interview.” She darted out of the kitchen and into the bathroom of their shared flat. Mariah trailed after her, and leaned against the wall beside the closed door. 

“Are you going to prepare at all?” she asked her friend. 

“What sort of preparation do I need?” Winnie inquired in response. “You’ve read the stories, haven’t you? No need to prepare when I can impress.” 

The shower started from inside the bathroom, and Mariah shook her head to herself and walked away from it, back to the kitchen. 

She and Winnie had met at university, when they were both newly arriving freshmen and uncertain of what their futures held. They’d roomed together back then as well, and became fast friends. Mariah herself had been studying law, while Winnie had gone through all the things she’d needed to in order to get the job she’d wanted, including three extra years of schooling. While Mariah was five years out of college, and had a small firm set up with someone else of her class, Winnie was dealing with the loss of her job, and trying to find a new one without any sort of other credentials.

Mariah’s friend wasn’t one to settle down. She was always switching jobs, never finding one position that suited her. Her major had involved criminals, just like Mariah’s own, but it was a career of a slightly different caliber. Unfortunately, Winnie’s career hadn’t worked out for her, do to… personal reasons, and she’d lost her job a few months prior. She’d been living with Mariah ever since, lost and uncertain of what to do next. 

Mariah wished that her friend could be happy, and that was why she had decided not to hide the one advertisement in the paper that could possibly interest her. And, of course, Mariah was tired of paying for the flat herself. She understood that Winnie was suffering from hard times, but she needed to get back onto her feet eventually. If a push from Mariah would help her do that, then so be it.  

Mariah busied herself with making Winnie a sandwich as Winnie herself prepared for her interview. When she emerged from the bathroom and bedroom, her hair was curled, her face done with just a hint of makeup, and she was dressed in her “interview outfit”, which consisted of a blue pencil skirt with a white blouse tucked into it. 

Mariah chuckled when she saw it. 

“What?” Winnie asked, looking down at herself. 

“You are a proper tart, did you know that?” Mariah asked her. 

“Oh, leave me alone,” Winnie sighed, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m nothing of the sort.” Mariah merely shook her head and finished the sandwich as Winnie went and retrieved the copy of her resume that she had printed out. When she had gotten it, she turned and accepted the sandwich from her friend, never looking up from the paper as she took a bite out of it. 

“Do you think it’s going to be pointless to even bring this?” she queried. 

“I think you should really learn to swallow before speaking,” Mariah sighed. “Take your coat; it’s cold out.” 

“Fine,” Winnie said, taking another bite out of the sandwich as she headed towards the door of the flat. She grabbed her coat off of the rack and slid into it. “I’ll probably be back sooner rather than later, depending on how this goes.” 

“I’ll see you later, then,” Mariah said.

“I’ll call you, and maybe pick up takeout,” Winnie said as she pulled open the door. “Bye!” 

Mariah listened as the door closed, and then she shook her head to herself, chuckling. 

Outside the flat, Winnie hailed a taxi, and climbed into it. “221B Baker Street,” she said, pulling the door closed. 

It trip took about thirty minutes as a whole, and she paid the cabbie an honest fare before climbing out of the taxi and onto the walk outside the flat building. It was a small cafe, the flat on the floors above it. Beside the door of the cafe was the door of the flat. 

Winnie exhaled and walked up to it. She raised one hand, and buzzed the bell. She waited a minute, and then two, before sighing to herself and buzzing again. 

Another two minutes passed, and then the door opened, only to reveal a small, old woman, who smiled warmly at Winnie. 

“Hello, dear,” she greeted. “Are you here to see Sherlock?” 

“Ah, yes,” Winnie responded. “Is he here?” 

“He is,” the old woman said, stepping out of the way of the door. “I just answer the door sometimes when he’s occupied. Come in, dear.” 

Winnie stepped into the building, and the woman closed the door before starting up the stairs just inside. Winnie followed after her, suddenly feeling a bit unsure when only moments ago she’d been perfectly certain that she knew what she was doing. 

“Sherlock? You have another one,” the old woman said when they had reached the second landing, which left them facing a front door. The old woman opened it. “Another interviewee?” 

“Mrs. Hudson, I told you I would answer the door myself today,” said a male voice from inside the flat. 

“You let the poor girl stand outside for five minutes!” the old woman exclaimed. 

“Girl?” 

“Yes, Sherlock.” the old woman, Mrs. Hudson, Winnie assumed, glanced back at her apologetically. “Sorry, lamb, he’s like this all the time. You can go in there.” 

“Thank you,” Winnie said, although she wasn’t sure if she  _ should _ be thanking her. Winnie stepped into the flat, and the door closed behind her. If she had known better, she would have thought that the door closing was sealing her in forever. 

Winnie found herself standing in a tea room of sorts. Two chairs sat at one end, beside a stone fireplace, and a sofa sat at the other. A table rested between the two windows against the wall, and it was covered in books and papers, with only one visible clean spot, about the space of a laptop. 

All in all, the flat was a mess. Winnie felt right at home, as her own bedroom was barely any cleaner.

“Mrs. Hudson, tell the  _ girl _ to come back later, if she must. I am busy!” A tall man strode into the room out of another, which, Winnie noticed, to be the kitchen when she glanced away from the man into it. The kitchen was just as messy as the front room. 

The man stared at her a moment. “Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” he asked. 

“She’s just left,” Winnie replied. “Are you… Sherlock Holmes?” 

The man narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you think?” 

Winnie exhaled. “I think that you are, and that I’ve caught you at a bad time, so if you would like, I can leave and, perhaps, come back later.” 

Sherlock frowned at her as he studied. He expected to see everything he needed to know in one glance, but it was taking a bit more than one to get it all. From her appearance, she was there for an interview, for the ad he’d put out in the paper shortly after John had decided to up and never see him again. He needed an assistant, even one of less caliber than John. This girl, however… 

“Where in Ireland are you from?” he asked. 

Winnie blinked at him. “Dublin.” 

“No,” he said simply, “your accent says otherwise.” 

“I’ve lived in London for almost ten years now, so maybe that has something to do with it,” she replied. 

Sherlock straightened his back a bit. He gestured for her to step forward, and Winnie did so, keeping her face forward as he circled her. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Winifred Reeves,” she answered. 

“Are you a Freddie to your friends?” he asked. 

“I’m a Winnie, actually.” 

“Interesting.” 

“You don’t really think so.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Sherlock agreed, coming to a stop in front of her again. “Well, Ms. Winnie Reeves, you live with your best friend, who graduated with a degree in law two years after you graduated with a degree in criminology. I imagine that the two of you own a cat, maybe two, though… it’s not probable, considering the amount of cat hair dotting your coat.” 

“Dr. Watson’s blog stated that you did this,” Winnie said, smiling a little. “I didn’t really believe it, but it’s true.” 

“How many cats?” Sherlock queried. 

“Just the one. Churchill.” 

“Cute,” Sherlock said. The two of them stared at one another for a moment longer, and then he inhaled and looked down at the floor. “I would also go as far to say that you didn’t come here for the personal assistant job alone, considering how many others you could have chosen from. There’s another reason you’re here, and, since you read Dr. Watson’s blog, I assume it has something to do with me, and my own line of work.” 

Winnie tilted her head. “You look shorter in the newspaper photographs,” she said after a moment. 

“Did you come here to gawk at the infamous Sherlock Holmes, or are you here to apply for the job?” he asked her. 

“Both,” Winnie answered, shrugging. She walked away from him and towards the fireplace. She peered at the skull on the mantle, frowning a bit. “Is this real?” she queried, pointing to it. 

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, following after her. He furrowed his brows as he gazed at her. “What’s different about you?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I’ve seen eight people today about the job, and they were all the same, except for you.” Winnie turned around to face him, and Sherlock’s frown deepened. “What’s different?” 

Winnie merely smirked. “I believe you sounded surprised when Mrs. Hudson informed you that I was female,” she said. “Perhaps that has something to do with it?” 

“No, there were four others before you,” Sherlock replied. “The surprise came from the fact that more women had shown up than men. It’s something else, something…” He stepped closer to her, and Winnie gazed up into his eyes, not flinching in the slightest. Sherlock’s frown faded, and the corners of his mouth even quirked up a bit in a smile. “Ah, I see.” 

“What?” Winnie asked him. 

“You’re not attracted to me.” 

Winnie let out a laugh of surprise. “And the rest were? You must think highly of yourself, Mr. Holmes.” 

“No, I’ve just become extremely good at reading the signs,” he answered. 

“A gift I’m sure every man and woman wished they had,” Winnie said. 

“Would you like to know how I do it?” 

“Sure.”

“Dilation of pupils, gooseflesh, the increase of a heart rate…” Sherlock reached out and took her wrist in his hand, placing two fingers over her pulse point on one side. He chuckled to himself. “Nothing at all, Ms. Reeves?” 

“You’re not my type,” Winnie replied, stepping away from him. “So, Mr. Holmes, would you like to -” 

“No need, I already know the things I need to know,” Sherlock said, walking past her and towards the opposite end of the room. 

“I should have assumed that,” Winnie sighed to herself. 

“You’re from Dublin, you graduated with a criminology major, you were removed from your previous job, and you’re only here because you believe the job as my personal assistant will be exciting.”

“Impressive,” Winnie said, watching him. 

“Not really,” Sherlock said. “It’s all apparent by your clothing choices and your posture.” 

“My… my posture?” 

“I’d explain it to you, but it would take too long,” Sherlock replied, waving his hand as he walked away towards the window that wasn’t blocked by the table. “How soon can you start working?”

“Uh -” 

“Stupid question,” he said for her. “You’re unemployed, and the only thing you have waiting for you is a hungry flatmate.” 

“Right,” Winnie agreed after a moment. “So… tomorrow, then?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock said, putting his hands behind his back. “On your way out, ask Mrs. Hudson to come up here, please.” 

“I -”

“Think of it as your first job, if it makes you feel better,” Sherlock told her. 

Winnie exhaled through her nose and nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes. Any specific time?” 

“No,” Sherlock said absently. “I rarely sleep, but when I do I am usually awake by seven thirty.” 

“Fine,” Winnie said again. “Eight thirty, then.” She started to leave the flat, but paused as she pulled open the door. “Mr. Holmes…” 

“Hm?” 

“Where is Dr. Watson?” 

Sherlock stiffened. “Need to know information, Ms. Reeves,” he said shortly. 

“Fine,” she said for the third time. “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.” 

She exited the flat and pulled the door closed behind her. Mrs. Hudson was already coming up the stairs as Winnie started down them, and she smiled warmly at her. 

“How did it go?” she asked. 

“I think he approved,” Winnie answered, and then offered her hand. “Winnie Reeves. He was asking for you.” 

“Oh, he probably wants me to make him some tea or some nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “I’m his landlady, but he seems to fancy me his housekeeper instead.” 

“Well, luckily for you, I may be the one brewing his tea starting tomorrow,” Winnie told her. She smiled. “I’ll see you then, Mrs. Hudson.” 

Winnie exited the flat the way she’d gone in, and hailed another cab as she pulled out her mobile to call Mariah, who answered on the second ring.

“How’d it go?” her friend asked, wasting no time. 

“I got the job, but we should talk about it in further detail when I get home,” Winnie replied, sliding into her cab. “Chinese sound all right? I’ll pick it up.” 

“Fine, but -” Winnie hung up the mobile before Mariah could say more, and gave the cabbie the address for the Chinese takeout place near their flat building. 

As the taxi pulled away from 221B Baker Street, Winnie considered her new employer. He didn’t want to work with someone who was attracted to him, which was understandable, and he wanted her to start as soon as possible, which meant that he… had a case?

Winnie sighed to herself. She would find out more the following day. For now, she wanted to get home, curl up on the sofa, eat some food and tell her best friend all about Sherlock Holmes. 

Which she did, about an hour later, Mariah listening with her eyes wide open all the while. 

“God above, he sounds like a right loon,” she exclaimed with Winnie was finished. 

“I don’t know,” Winnie commented. “I thought he was interesting. He knew about Church because of the hair on my coat!” 

“He calls it deduction, right?” Mariah asked her. 

“Yes,” Winnie replied, setting down her empty takeout box on the coffee table. She rested her elbow on the arm of the sofa, and gazed thoughtfully at her friend while Mariah finished off her own box. “I think he hired me because I’m not attracted to him. Is that a weird assumption?” 

“No,” Mariah answered after a second. “It makes sense to me. Why would it be odd?” 

“I don’t know,” Winnie admitted. “And… Dr. Watson is a touchy subject, too, it seems.” 

“Why do you say that?” Mariah queried, setting down her box. 

“Sherlock stiffened when I brought him up,” Winnie told her. 

“Well, he did fake his death and leave Dr. Watson in the dark about it for two years,” Mariah pointed out. “Maybe Dr. Watson is still angry about it, and Sherlock just misses his friend.” 

“Am I to be Dr. Watson’s replacement, then?” 

“I doubt even you could replace Dr. Watson, Win,” Mariah said, laughing. “You’ll just be there to make Sherlock tea and make sure he doesn’t overdose.” 

Winnie stared at her friend in shock. “You think he does drugs?” 

“I think he does  _ something _ ,” Mariah answered, “and you’ll probably find out what it is sooner rather than later.” 

“Do you think… Oh, God, Mariah…” Winnie covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide. “Do you think he’s going to send me on drug runs?” 

“No,” Mariah said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure that won’t be something you have to do.” 

“So… why does he need me, then?” Winnie asked, lowering her hand. 

“I don’t know,” Mariah replied, “but you’ll find out tomorrow, won’t you?” 

“I suppose I will,” Winnie said after a moment. 

“And… uh… Win?” 

“What?” 

“I would wear pants,” Mariah said. 

“Right,” Winnie agreed absently. 

Mariah was right. Winnie would get answers to a lot of her questions as soon as she started work the following day, but Winnie doubted that  _ all _ of her questions would be answered. She’d read enough about Sherlock Holmes to realize that ahead of time. 

It was also apart of the reason she’d gone for an interview. She did love puzzles, and she imagined that Sherlock Holmes would be the best, and most difficult, she’d ever solve. 


	2. Solving Crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Winnie meets Mycroft, and "helps" Sherlock solve a few cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate canon conversations, don't you? Especially when you have to write them in order to make your story makes sense?  
> It's just a pain in the butt.

The following morning, at eight thirty, Winnie strolled up the stairs of Sherlock’s flat building to the flat itself. She found the door open and unlocked, as it had been before, and she opened it before stepping inside the flat, slowly, unsure of if it was all right.

“Good lord, could you move any slower if you tried?” Sherlock asked from inside. 

Winnie immediately quickened her pace, apologizing. She found him sitting in one of the chairs she’d noticed the day before, the black one. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, and his hands pressed together under his chin. 

“You’re late,” he said to her. 

“No I’m not,” Winnie answered. “It’s 8:30.” 

“Hmm, could’ve sworn we agreed on 8,” Sherlock muttered. 

There was silence. Oddly enough, his statement had made her feel like she  _ was _ late, but she decided not to apologize, at the risk of sounding stupid. 

Winnie cleared her throat. “What do you need me to do?” 

“Be quiet.” 

“But -” 

“I need you to be quiet,” Sherlock said, sounding annoyed. “I’m thinking.” 

“Okay,” Winnie muttered to herself, crossing her arms. She went across the flat to the window and peered outside. It was then that she noticed something that hadn’t been present the day before, and she turned to face the wall behind the sofa. It was filled with maps and papers and photographs, things that would have taken him all night to put up. Sherlock clearly hadn’t slept. 

“Damn,” he said from behind her. Winnie turned around, and Sherlock stood up, gesturing to the front door. Winnie glanced at it, and watched in surprise as it opened to reveal a man dressed in a grayish-tan colored suit. He was taller than Sherlock, but only by an inch or so, and there was a slight resemblance between the two of them. 

“Who’s -?” 

“Mycroft, this is Winifred Reeves,” Sherlock said, stepping up beside her. 

“Replacing John already, brother mine?” the man, Mycroft, inquired, gazing down at Winnie with an uninterested look in his eye. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not replacing,” he said. “She’s my new assistant.”

Mycroft laughed. “What on earth do you need an assistant for?” 

“Mrs. Hudson is rather upset with me,” Sherlock stated. “I need someone to make my tea in her absence. Winnie.” 

“Sure, tea,” she sighed, walking away from the two men and towards the kitchen. As she brewed the tea, she listened to Mycroft and Sherlock settle down in the two chairs and set up a game of chess between the two of them as they talked about what Winnie believed to be… homeless people? 

As she walked out of the kitchen with a tray full of teacups, teapot, sugar bowl, and a plate of biscuits, Mycroft was saying, “All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical.” 

“Wait, what?” Winnie asked, setting the tray down on a side table. 

“Boring,” Sherlock decided, moving a chess piece, and knocking off one of Mycroft’s. “Your move.” 

“We have solid information; an attack is coming,” Mycroft said, before moving a piece of his own. 

“Solid information…” Sherlock gazed at his brother. “A secret terrorist organization is planning an attack. That’s what secret terrorist organizations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.” 

“Sorry, a  _ terrorist _ organization is going to attack? Where?” Winnie demanded, crossing her arms. 

“Don’t ask questions right now, Winnie,” Sherlock said, not looking away from his brother. “Two sugars, don’t stir them in.” 

Winnie rolled her eyes, but went about preparing her employer’s cup of tea as Mycroft went on. 

“An agent gave his life to tell us that,” he said to Sherlock. 

“Well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done. He was obviously just trying to show off,” Sherlock replied. 

Winnie shook her head to herself and set down Sherlock’s tea on the table beside him. 

“None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?” Mycroft asked, moving another chess piece. “Your move.” 

“No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer,” Sherlock said, “but it’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog or in an unexpected trip to the countryside or a misplaced lonely hearts ad.” Sherlock moved a chess piece without even looking down at the board, and smiled at his brother. “Your move.” 

Mycroft took a moment, and Winnie watched as his shoulders rose and fell. “I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case,” he said after a second. 

“I am on the case, we’re on the case, look at us right now.” Sherlock glanced down at the chess game. “This is boring. Winnie.” 

“What?” she asked. 

“Get the Operation game that’s under the table.” 

Winnie frowned, but got down on her hands and knees and peered under the table. Indeed, on top of a stack of papers was the game Operation. She pulled it out and handed it to him, and Sherlock went about setting it up before passing the tweezers to Mycroft. 

“You first.” 

Mycroft went for the heart, and buzzed. “Oh, bugger,” he cursed. 

“Oopsy,” Sherlock said as Mycroft tossed the tweezers down. “Can’t handle a broken heart. How very telling.” He leaned back in his chair as Mycroft glared at him. 

“Don’t be smart.” 

“That takes me back,” Sherlock said, glancing off to the side. In a high pitched voice, he went on, “‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I’m the smart one.’” 

“I am the smart one,” Mycroft replied dryly. 

“I used to think I was an idiot,” Sherlock said. 

“Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him, leaning back in his own chair. “We had nothing else to go on, until we met other children.” 

“Oh yes, that was a mistake,” Sherlock said. 

“Ghastly. What were they thinking of?” Mycroft queried. 

“Probably something about trying to make friends,” Sherlock answered. 

Winnie blinked as she listened to this back and forth. The two of them had been like this as children? She could only imagine what that had entailed for school-life and other relationships, though, from what Sherlock was saying, it sounded like they didn’t have any. 

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft said. “‘Friends.’ Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.” He gestured towards Winnie with his head and Sherlock frowned. 

“Don’t be daft. Winnie’s an employee of mine.” 

“One who has been standing here and doing nothing,” Winnie inserted. 

Sherlock ignored her. “You don’t try to make friends, Mycroft? Ever?” 

Mycroft stared at him. “If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.” 

“Well, that makes me feel great about myself,” Winnie muttered under her breath. 

“I’ve been away for two years,” Sherlock said. 

“So?” Mycroft inquired. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a goldfish,” Sherlock replied, smiling a bit. 

“Change the subject, now,” Mycroft ordered, rising from his seat. 

“Rest assured, Mycroft, whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside itself in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre.” 

“Yes, like you hiring a… what did you call it? Personal assistant?” Mycroft asked him. 

Winnie threw her hands up into the air and sat down on the sofa at the other end of the room. 

“Mycroft, me needing help is no more bizarre than you gaining two pounds since I last saw you a week ago,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft pursed his lips as Mrs. Hudson came into the flat through the front door. 

“I love seeing him sitting in his chair again,” she said, sighing. “I can hardly believe it, in fact. Can you believe it, Mr. Holmes?” 

“I can barely contain myself,” Mycroft replied, leaning against the wall. 

“Oh, he really can, you know,” Sherlock said. 

“He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that,” Mrs. Hudson insisted. She noticed the tea tray on the table, and blinked. “Oh, I see you already have some tea.” 

“Yes, Winnie made it,” Sherlock said, gesturing to her. Mrs. Hudson turned around, and Winnie lifted  a hand in greeting. 

“I’m surprised these two haven’t caused you to leave the flat screaming,” Mrs. Hudson commented to her. 

“They’ve gotten close,” Winnie promised. 

“Sorry, which of us is pleased to see the other?” Mycroft asked.

“Both of you,” Mrs. Hudson answered, and then she walked out of the flat. 

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Let’s play something different.” 

Mycroft scoffed to himself. “Why are we playing games?”

“London’s terror alert has been raised to critical,” Sherlock answered. “I’m just passing the time.” 

Winnie shook her head and let out a small chuckle as Sherlock stood. 

“Let’s do deductions,” he said to Mycroft. 

“Oh, joy,” Winnie sighed, lying down on the sofa to watch the show. 

“Client left this while I was out, what do you reckon?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to a knitted cap that was resting on the table. He picked it up and tossed it to Mycroft, who caught it easily. 

“I’m busy,” he said to Sherlock. 

“Oh, go on, it’s been an age,” Sherlock insisted. 

“I always win,” Mycroft said after sniffing the cap. 

“Which is why you can’t resist,” Sherlock said. 

“I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled, anxious, sentimental, unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis,” Mycroft answered. He then frowned to himself in annoyance. “Damn.” 

Sherlock caught the hat as it was tossed back to him. “Isolated, too, don’t you think?” he asked, glancing down at it. 

“Why would he be isolated?” Mycroft asked. 

“He?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Why? Size of the hat?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft said. “Some women have large heads, too.” Winnie snickered to herself. “No, he’s recently had his hair cut, you can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Some women have short hair, too,” he said at last. 

“Balance of probability,” Mycroft explained. 

“Not that you’ve ever spoken to a woman with short hair, or, you know, a woman.” 

“Great comeback, Sherlock,” Winnie informed him, sounding bored. “A plus.” 

“Stains show he’s out of condition,” Mycroft continued, “and he’s sentimental because the hat has been prepared three…”

“Five times,” Sherlock said quickly, tossing the hat back. “Very neatly. The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat so he’s mawkishly attached to it. But it’s more than that. One, perhaps two patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five’s obsessive behavior.”

“You have freakish behavior,” Winnie informed him. 

“Winifred, do stop talking, please, Mycroft and I are playing a game,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. He turned back to Mycroft. “Obsessive-compulsive.” 

“Hardly,” Mycroft said simply. “Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive-compulsive would do that?” He threw the hat back to Sherlock. “The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he’s worn it abroad, in Peru.” 

“Peru?” Sherlock asked. 

“This is a Chullo,” Mycroft said, walking towards where Sherlock stood. “The classic headgear of the Andes, it’s made of Alpaca.” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive, if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibers.” 

“I’m sure there’s a crying need for that,” Mrs. Hudson commented as she came into the room with a fresh pot of tea. Winnie chuckled to herself as Mrs. Hudson the set the pot down and left the room again. 

“You said he was anxious?” Sherlock asked Mycroft. 

“The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he’s a man of nervous disposition but -” 

“But also a creature of habit,” Sherlock finished, cutting his brother off, “because he hasn’t chewed the bobble on the right.” 

“Precisely,” Mycroft agreed. 

Sherlock raised the hat and inhaled its scent, loudly. “A brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath. Brilliant.” 

“Elementary,” Mycroft corrected. 

“But you’ve missed his isolation,” Sherlock insisted, turning around so that he was facing Winnie instead of Mycroft. She sat up, curious, as he grinned. 

“I don’t see it,” Mycroft admitted. 

“Plain as day,” Sherlock said. 

“Where?” 

“There for all to see.” He threw the hat to Winnie, and she caught it, studying it for a moment. She then frowned and glanced up at the brothers. 

“Is it because it's such a stupid hat?” she asked them. 

Sherlock’s smile grew, and he turned to face Mycroft. “See? Plain as the nose on your face.” 

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “Maybe he just doesn’t mind being different. He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated.” 

Sherlock gazed at him a moment, and then held out his hand towards Winnie. She threw the hat back to him. “Exactly.” 

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?” 

“He’s different, so what? Why would he mind? You’re quite right.” Sherlock put the hat on and looked at Mycroft. “Why would anyone mind?” 

Winnie understood what Sherlock was implying just as Mycroft did. “I’m not lonely, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stepped towards his brother, gazing at him. “How would you know?” he asked after a moment. Mycroft blinked as Sherlock walked away from him, taking the hat off as he did so. 

After a moment, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes. Back to work, if you don’t mind?” he said to Sherlock. “Good morning,” he said to them all, and then he exited the flat, closing the door behind him. Sherlock watched him go, and then he looked at Winnie. 

“Can you tell that he’s my brother?” 

“Unfortunately,” she answered. 

“Right,” Sherlock said as Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself and went back to doing the dishes in the kitchen. “Back to work.” He walked towards the sofa and gazed at the map of papers on the wall behind it. Winnie stood up and joined him. 

“So… these are the… pawns?” she asked, not knowing if she was using the right word. “The ones that tell about the terrorist attack?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “All of these people have things they know, and if they do something out of the ordinary, I need to know about that.” 

“And… how do you get your information?” 

“My homeless network,” he replied vacantly, stepping up onto the sofa. He crossed off a photo of a man after his mobile binged and he looked at it, and Winnie frowned. 

“No longer a pawn, then?” she guessed. 

“You learn quickly,” Sherlock said. 

Winnie smiled to herself as Mrs. Hudson crept out of the kitchen. “Sherlock?” she said. 

“Hmm?” 

“Talk to John again.” 

“I’ve tried,” Sherlock replied without looking away from the wall. “He made his position quite clear.” 

Mrs. Hudson sighed to herself, and went back into the kitchen. Winnie glanced at Sherlock. 

“He hasn’t forgiven you for faking your death and not telling him?” she asked. 

“No,” Sherlock responded, glancing at his mobile again. “I doubt, however, that he’ll stay away for long.” 

“Why do you say that?” Winnie inquired. 

“John has a certain way that he lives, and it’s the only way he can live,” Sherlock said, “just like you. His life requires dangerous situations, just like yours requires you to never settle down for long enough to get comfortable.” 

Winnie cleared her throat, and Sherlock hopped down from the sofa. He stared at the wall a minute longer, and then turned to face her. “Ms. Reeves?” 

“Hm?” 

“Would you like to solve crimes?” he asked. 

Winnie frowned a bit. “Oh, uh… I didn’t know that was apart of the job,” she said after a moment. 

“You don’t actually have to do anything,” Sherlock said. “You can just stand there and exclaim a bit under your breath every time I do something worth exclaiming about.” He smiled. “That was all John did for the first few crimes we solved together.” 

“I see.” Winnie shrugged her shoulders. “All right. Do we have a crime to solve? I thought you’d want to focus on this terrorist thing.” 

“Dull,” Sherlock said. 

“What?” Winnie exclaimed.

Sherlock looked at her, seemingly surprised by her shock. “I meant that nothing is going to happen on that front for a while, and I don’t want to be bored while I wait.” 

“Oh,” Winnie responded after gazing at him a moment. 

“You say that quite a lot,” Sherlock commented. 

“What?” 

“You say that a lot, too,” Sherlock added. “Nice to see some things about crime solving partners are the same.” 

“Does… does John repeat himself?” 

“Occasionally,” Sherlock replied, “but I’ve come to ignore the second time he says things. Come to think of it, I sometimes ignore the first time he says things, too…” He glanced sideways at Winnie. “He is prone to annoyance with me, but it's balanced by my own annoyance with him.” 

“I don't think either of you really dislike each other,” Winnie said after a moment. “He’s just… taking his time, to get used to the idea of you being alive. He was certain that you were dead, Mr. Holmes. Do you blame him for being angry with you?” 

Sherlock chose not to respond, and he walked away from her. “My laptop should be under all of that rubbish on the table,” he said to her. “Find it, and open my email to see if there are any interesting cases that we can solve together.” 

“Mr. Holmes, are you sure you want my help?” Winnie asked him as she went to retrieve his laptop. 

“Why would I suggest it if I wasn't?” 

“I just… I've never solved crimes before,” Winnie said. “Surely you're much more capable of doing it on you own.” 

“If I thought so, would I have put out an ad for a personal assistant?” Sherlock questioned, glancing at her. 

Winnie exhaled through her nose as she pulled the laptop out from under a stack of paper. She then set it down on the bare spot on the table and opened it. “Email, you said?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. 

“All right…” Winnie navigated her way to Sherlock’s emails, and scanned them. She smiled to herself as she did so. “You have a lot of fans, Mr. Holmes.” 

“If there's one thing I'm angry about, it's the fact that John didn't close my email account once I was dead,” Sherlock told her. He waved his hand at the laptop. “Two year’s worth of fan mail, Winnie. How am I supposed to deal with all of it?” 

“Well,” Winnie started. “You click on this little box at the top of the window, click mark all as read, and then you click delete all.” 

Sherlock gazed at the screen as the page of emails disappeared, and then he looked at her. 

“Magic.” 

Winnie laughed. “Not really.” 

“Do it again,” Sherlock insisted. 

Winnie went through the process once more, and Sherlock paid closer attention this time. When the emails disappeared, he clapped his hands together. 

“I knew you'd be helpful for something,” he said. 

Winnie shook her head to herself and moved to the folder marked “Cases”, which she had no doubt that Dr. Watson had set up for him. She clicked it, and started to skim through the emails, looking for one that, she hoped, would be simple enough for her to help with. 

“Here’s one…” she started, reading through it. “A bank account was accessed by someone other than the two people who had access to it.”

Sherlock didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t argue, either. “I suppose it could be interesting,” he said after a moment. 

“Are you just saying that because you know I don’t want to deal with guns and chases through London’s streets right away?” Winnie asked him. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied. “Ask him if he’s available within the next hour.” 

“Email him, you mean?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and then he turned and exited the flat. Winnie sighed to herself, but sent an inquiry to the address that had emailed Sherlock. There was a response in under two minutes, and when Sherlock came back into the flat, wearing a suit jacket rather than his dressing gown, Winnie gestured to the screen. 

“He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.” 

“Good,” Sherlock said, adjusting his jacket. 

“So… what do I do, exactly?” Winnie asked him. 

“You sit there,” Sherlock replied. 

“And…?” 

“Well, you can take notes if you like,” Sherlock said. “John did that, sometimes.” 

“So… did John ever actually help, or was he just there so that when you talked to yourself, you didn’t look like an insane person?” Winnie queried. 

Sherlock glanced at her. “A bit of both,” he said after a moment. 

Winnie shook her head with a chuckle and sat down on the edge of the table as Sherlock paced the flat. Only ten minutes passed before the client arrived, along with a woman, whom Winnie assumed to be his wife.

The client introduced himself as Mr. Edward Harcourt, and his wife as Helen, and Helen sat down in the chair that Mycroft had occupied only thirty minutes prior while Harcourt remained standing beside it. 

“Thank you for agreeing to a meeting, Mr. Holmes,” Harcourt began. “My wife insisted that you could be of assistance.” 

“I read Dr. Watson’s blog,” Helen Harcourt explained. “My favorite case was the one about the… oh… animal intestines.” 

Winnie glanced up at Sherlock in question, and he smiled. “Ah, yes, the poisoned food at the exotic restaurant.” 

“What was the poisoned food again, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Harcourt asked. 

“Monkey glands,” Sherlock replied as he studied his information wall. “But enough about Professor Presbury.” He turned around again and walked back towards the chairs. “Tell us more about your case, Mr. Harcourt.” 

“Are you sure about this?” Winnie asked as he sat down in his chair. 

“Of course.” 

“Am I supposed to be… Dr. Watson, or…?” 

“No, you be yourself,” Sherlock said. Winnie let out a breath, but turned her attention to their two visitors. 

“Well, absolutely no one should be able to enter that bank account other than myself and Helen,” Mr. Harcourt said. 

Sherlock gazed at the man for about two seconds before he stood up again. “Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?” he asked. 

“Because I’ve always had total faith in her,” Harcourt replied. 

“No, it’s because  _ you _ emptied it,” Sherlock told him, and then proceeded to point at different parts of Harcourt’s body. “Weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair.” 

“Mr. Holmes!” Winnie said, her eyes going wide. 

Sherlock glanced back at her. “What?” He then pulled a business card out of his pocket, and offered it to Helen Harcourt. “Lawyer.” He turned to face Winnie fully. “Find me another one, preferably something a bit more challenging, this time.” 

Winnie gaped at him as he shuffled the Harcourts out of the flat. She then blinked a few times and reached for the laptop. 

“A missing penpal?” she asked after reading through the emails. 

Sherlock looked at her, and then sighed. “I suppose.” 

About thirty minutes later, a young woman was seated on the sofa beneath the information wall, and Sherlock was seated beside her, holding her hand. The woman was distraught, and the old fellow she had brought with her looked like he didn’t want to be there.

“And… your pen-pal's emails just stopped, did they?” he asked her. The woman nodded as she cried into a tissue. “You thought he was the one, the love of your life.” The woman nodded again as Sherlock looked over at Winnie, a pained expression on his face. 

Winnie frowned as he left the woman’s side and approached her. 

“Step-father posing as online boyfriend,” he said quietly. 

“What?” Winnie inquired, not believing. 

“He breaks it off, he breaks her heart,” Sherlock explained. “She swears off relationships, stays at home. He still has her wage coming in.” Before Winnie could say anything, Sherlock turned around and faced the two on the sofa. “Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter  -”

“Okay, no,” Winnie interrupted, rising from her chair and placing her hand against Sherlock’s chest. She gazed up at him. “Let me handle this one, all right?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but backed away, sliding his hands into his pockets. Winnie gestured for the step-father to join her near the front door. 

“I know what you’ve been doing, and it’s not right,” she said to him. 

“It’s for the both of us,” Mr. Windibank insisted. 

“I don’t care,” Winnie said. “It’s disgusting. She is in love with this fake person you’ve created, and you’re breaking her heart even without breaking off the relationship.” She gestured towards the woman. “Figure something out, go to counseling. Mr. Holmes is not a relationship therapist.” 

Mr. Windibank scowled. “She said that she wanted to talk to him to find out about George.” 

“Well, it was unnecessary,” Winnie told him. “If Sherlock tells her what you’ve been doing, you can kiss your relationship in its entirety goodbye. Take her somewhere nice, and explain it to her.” 

The two left after that, and Winnie turned to Sherlock. 

“You should’ve let me tell her,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“I’m here to help, and I handled that in a better way than you would have,” Winnie responded, retaking her seat. 

Sherlock scowled a bit as he paced across the flat. After a minute, he exhaled. “We’re going out,” he said. 

“What?” Winnie asked in surprise. 

“Do you know Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Sherlock questioned as he went into the kitchen and reemerged with a scarf and a long trench coat. 

“Uh… no?” 

“Good, then you’re going to meet him shortly,” Sherlock said. He pulled open the flat door and started out. “Come on.” 

Winnie couldn’t exactly argue with her boss, and so she grabbed for her own coat and pulled it on before hurrying out of the flat after him, shutting the door behind her. “Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock replied as she caught up with him at the foot of the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a brighter note, we get to meet Lestrade next chapter. Hurray!


	3. Jack the Ripper and Train Cars and Bonfires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Winnie discover a fake skeleton, and the fact that train carriages are, in fact, correctly termed "cars".   
> Oh, and they save John Watson from burning to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be frank, I don't think I've gotten this "Write like you're from the UK even though you're not" thing down just yet. I mean...   
> I'm going to have to do more research.

They caught a taxi and Sherlock gave the cabbie a downtown address. Winnie decided it was best to stay silent on the ride there, and when they arrived, she found the whole building sectioned off with caution tape and police cars. 

A man who appeared to be slightly younger than middle-aged was standing outside the building as their taxi pulled to a halt. Sherlock climbed out, leaving Winnie to pay, and then she scrambled after her employer as he took long strides to get to the man. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Winifred Reeves,” Sherlock said when they’d reached him. “She’s my PA.” 

Winnie gazed at Lestrade. He had silver hair and kind brown eyes, but they were looking at her in surprise as she came to a halt beside Sherlock. 

“Personal assistant?” Lestrade asked him, blinking. Winnie offered him her hand, and Lestrade shook it, still blinking. “You hired a personal assistant?” 

Sherlock didn't respond. “The Skeleton Mystery, yes?” he asked instead. 

Lestrade gazed at Winnie a moment longer and then shook his head a bit. “Yeah, come on inside,” he said, letting go of her hand and turning towards the building. 

He led the way into the building, which, Winnie realized shortly after entering, was actually a hotel of some kind. At least, it used to be. It was now very run down, and was littered with old coffee throw-away cups and stomped on caution tape. 

Lestrade shuffled down a side hallway, Sherlock and Winnie following after him. They stopped in front of the last door at the end of the hall. The room itself was X-ed out with caution tape. 

“This one has got us all baffled,” Lestrade said to Sherlock. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock said, and Winnie quickly bit her tongue to keep from snickering at the blatancy of Sherlock’s comment. 

Lestrade opened the door to reveal a dark staircase leading downward, probably into the basement. He took the stairs first, and Sherlock followed after him. Winnie hesitated a moment before starting down them as well, blinking as the space around them darkened considerably with each step they took. 

At the bottom, they reached a small room, where a section of the brick wall had been torn away to reveal another space. The three of them ducked through the broken part of the wall into the space, and Lestrade flicked on a set of police lights to brighten up the room the wall led into. 

Winnie’s mouth dropped open as Lestrade turned on more lights, and she found herself gazing at an old desk, with a skeleton seated in the chair behind it. An old glass of wine sat on the desk, a small pool of red at the bottom, congealed with age. 

Sherlock approached the desk, pulling a small bag out of his trench coat. He set it down on the desk and opened it, withdrawing a magnifying glass from it. He then began to study the skeleton.

Winnie silently waited for some kind of instruction as her employer examined the skeleton. After a minute, Sherlock straightened up, closing the small magnifying glass as he did so, and then he pulled out his mobile. 

“What is it?” Winnie asked him. “Are you on to something?” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock murmured in response, putting his mobile away again. He huffed outwards in annoyance and scratched at his eyebrow. “Shut up, John.” 

Winnie frowned. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Sherlock answered shortly, walking around to the other side of the desk. He pulled out a set of tweezers from the satchel he’d gotten the magnifying glass from, and lifted the lapel of the suit on the skeleton. 

Lestrade glanced at Winnie once before approaching Sherlock and leaning towards him. “This is going to be your new arrangement, is it?” he asked. 

“Just giving it a go,” Sherlock replied vacantly.

“Right,” Lestrade said, glancing over at Winnie again. “So, John?” 

Winnie watched as Sherlock straightened up. “Not really in the picture anymore,” he said to Lestrade, and then he walked over to where Winnie was standing and faced the desk head on. There was a rumbling overhead, and Winnie glanced up at the ceiling before over at Sherlock. 

“Trains?” she guessed. 

“Trains,” he confirmed. He then squatted downwards and gazed at the desk, his eyebrows drawn together. “Winnie?” 

“Hmm?” She straightened up a bit. 

“Do you know anything about skeletons?” Sherlock asked her.

Winnie blinked at him. “Why do you think I would?” 

“Because your major was criminology, and you had a minor in medicine,” Sherlock replied, sighing. 

Winnie glanced between him and Lestrade, whose eyebrows were furrowed as he watched her, and then she stammered, “Well, when I was a criminology major, they did have us inspect bodies, but… they usually had skin, still. And it was to understand how a crime had been committed.” 

“So, you’ve never seen a bare skeleton, then?” Sherlock questioned, standing up. 

Winnie sighed. “What do you want to know, Sherlock?” 

“The age.” 

Winnie glanced at the skeleton. “Of the person, or the skeleton?” 

“Both.” 

“Fine.” Winnie approached the skeleton and pulled back the collars on the coat and shirt it was wearing. “40-50 year old male…” she started, and then she reached for the skeleton’s arm and pulled back the sleeve on the jacket. “But…” 

“What?” Sherlock asked, stepping up behind her. 

“It’s just… odd, because the skeleton itself can’t be more than six months old,” she explained, eyeing the bone decay on the arm.

There was a squeak as Sherlock pressed against the side of the desk, and a small door opened outwards. Winnie frowned as Sherlock reached inside the compartment and pulled out an old, dusty book. He blew the dust off of the cover, and then rolled his eyes to himself before holding it out towards Winnie. 

_ “How I Did It _ by Jack the Ripper?” she asked, glancing up from the book. Sherlock tossed the book down on the desk, and Lestrade leaned over to investigate it. “That’s impossible,” Winnie decided. 

“Welcome to my world,” Sherlock responded, leaning down to look into the compartment again. “I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining it to you,” he began. 

“No, please, insult away,” Lestrade invited. 

“The corpse is six months old. It’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years, in a case facing southeast, judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago,” Sherlock concluded, showing an ad for a museum sale on his mobile. 

“So, the whole thing was a fake?” Lestrade asked. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. 

Lestrade let out a disappointed sigh. “Looked so promising.” 

“Facile,” Sherlock said, disappearing out of the room. 

Winnie shook her head before looking at Lestrade. He had pulled the book towards him and was studying the inside page, but glanced up when he felt her eyes on her.   


"You work with him a lot, then?" she asked. 

"Unfortunately," Lestrade replied, "which is why I'm surprised he hired you." 

Winnie raised and lowered her shoulders. "I'm just as surprised, Detective Inspector." She smiled at him. "It was nice meeting you." With that, she turned and left the hidden room and returned upstairs. 

She found Sherlock outside the hotel, waiting for her. He didn’t comment on his mistake, and she chose not to bring it up, either. Instead, she merely followed him into the taxi that pulled up next to the curb. 

“Where are we going now?” she asked. 

“To return a hat,” Sherlock answered. 

“You mean… the Chullo made of Icelandic sheep’s wool?” she queried, smiling a bit. 

Sherlock glanced at her. “Yes.” 

The cabbie took them into the suburbs of London, and pulled up in front of an flat building. Sherlock actually paid this time, and then he held open the door for Winnie as she climbed out. He led the way into the building and up a set of stairs to n flat on the second level of the building. 

He buzzed the button, and a voice from the other side of the door started speaking, “Mind the gap.” 

Winnie chuckled a bit, and pressed the button for herself. “Mind the gap.” She started to touch it again, but Sherlock caught her hand before she could and put it down at her side as the door opened to reveal a husky young man, whose eyes widened in surprise when he saw them. 

Sherlock smiled, and held out the cap towards him. 

“Oh,” he said, taking it. “Thanks for hanging onto it.” 

“No problem,” Sherlock answered. He and Winnie then followed the man into the flat, and Winnie closed the door behind her. “So, what’s this all about, Mr. Shilcott?” Sherlock queried as they followed him into a room just off the front hallway. 

Winnie blinked in surprise at all the train memorabilia that littered display cases and the walls. There was even a model train set lining the walls and part of the room. 

“My girlfriend’s a big fan of yours,” Mr. Shilcott said to Sherlock. 

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock asked, chuckling. Winnie hit him in the arm as Shilcott turned to face them, and Sherlock exhaled. “Sorry, do go on.” 

“I like trains,” Shilcott said. 

“Yes…” Sherlock agreed, eyeing the room. 

“I work on the Tube, on the District Line,” Shilcott went on, “and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it’s been cleared.” He walked towards a laptop that was on a table, and opened it. “I was just whizzing through and, uh, I found something a bit bizarre.” 

Winnie and Sherlock exchanged a look as Shilcott sat down in the chair before the table. Sherlock made a face, and Winnie drew her lips inwards to keep from laughing. Sherlock stepped forward to join Shilcott at the table. 

“Now,” Shilcott started, clicking the play button, “this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster Station.” 

On screen, a single man was standing on the platform, a briefcase in hand. 

“Now, this man gets into the last car,” Shilcott said as the man on the screen presently did so. 

“Car?” Winnie asked. 

“They’re cars, not carriages,” Shilcott said, sounding a bit annoyed. “It’s a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system.” 

Winnie glanced at Sherlock, bothered, and Sherlock smirked. “He said he liked trains.” 

Winnie rolled her eyes, but returned her attention to the screen. The tram had pulled into the next station.

“Next stop, St. James’s Park Station,” Shilcott explained. “And…” They all watched as the doors on the tram opened, but no one emerged from the carriages…  _ cars _ . 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with interest as he watched the screen. There was no one in the cars, nor was there anyone on the platform. It was empty. The man from the shot before had seemingly disappeared. 

“I thought you’d like it,” Shilcott said, seeing Sherlock’s expression. He rewound the video to show the man boarding again. “He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger…” The video flew forward to the second stop, “And the car is empty at St. James’s Park station.” 

Shilcott paused the video, and glanced at Sherlock. “Explain that, Mr. Holmes.” 

Winnie wasn’t as impressed as Sherlock seemed to be. “Couldn’t he have just jumped off?” she asked Shilcott. 

He exhaled. “There’s a safety mechanism that presents the doors from opening in transit,” he explained to her. “But there’s something else. The driver of that train hasn’t been to work since. According to his flatmate, he’s on holiday. Came into some money.” 

Sherlock looked at Winnie. “Bought off?” he asked. 

“Seems like it,” she agreed. 

“So if the driver of the train was in on it,” Sherlock started, glancing down at the screen again, “then the passenger did get off.” 

“There’s nowhere he could go,” Shilcott said. “It’s a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There’s no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels. Nothing on any map. Nothing.” He turned to face Sherlock. “The train never stops and a man vanishes.” He grinned. “Good, innit?” 

Winnie frowned to herself as she gazed at the screen. “Play the footage for me, and pause when the whole train is in view.” 

Shilcott frowned, but did as she asked. She counted the cars in the first shot, and then gestured for him to go on. When the footage paused again, she counted the cars again, and smiled before glancing at Sherlock. 

He had his eyes squeezed shut, and, before she could speak, he did: “I know that face.” His eyes opened again, and Winnie waited patiently as he stared at the floor. 

After a minute, Sherlock abruptly turned and exited the room, and then the flat. Winnie blinked in surprise, and then apologized to Shilcott before hurrying after her employer. She found him standing on the flight of stairs leading to the third floor, his eyes closed. 

As she started up the stairs towards him, they opened. “The journey between those two stations usually takes five minutes and that journey took ten minutes. Ten minutes to get from Westminster to St. James’s Park. So I’m going to need maps, lots of maps. Older maps, all the maps.” 

“Sorry,” Winnie said, “but did you notice that one of the train cars was missing?” 

Sherlock glanced at her. “Yes,” he replied. 

“Oh,” Winnie said, defeated. “Okay. Maps, you said?” 

“Yep,” Sherlock answered, and then he started down the stairs, going past her as he did so. “Fancy some chips?” 

“What?” Winnie asked, going after him. 

“I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.” 

Winnie sighed to herself. “Did you keep him out of prison or something?” 

“No, I helped him put up some shelves,” Sherlock answered. 

“Sherlock,” Winnie began, following him outside and down the sidewalk. 

“Hmm?” 

“How  _ did _ you fake your death?” she asked. Sherlock didn’t stop walking, nor did he glance down at her. “I mean, I was just wondering because there are so many theories, and… since I know and can ask the source himself, I just thought…” She trailed off when she looked up and saw his expression. “Or… you can keep it to yourself. That’s fine, too.” 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, stopping on the street corner. “Maybe I’ll tell you, soon, but as for right now… it’s something that should remain unknown.” 

“Right,” Winnie agreed quietly. “That’s fine. I’m sorry for prying.” There was silence between the two of them as it began to snow lightly, and Winnie pulled up her coat’s collar. “Does the offer for chips still stand?” she questioned. 

Sherlock smiled a bit. “Sure,” he said. “Come on.” 

About two hours later, Winnie was preparing to leave Sherlock’s flat and return to her own when Sherlock’s mobile binged from where he had left it on the arm of his chair. 

“Sherlock!” Winnie called, going over to retrieve the mobile. She unlocked it and gazed down at the message that had just been sent to him, frowning to herself. 

_ Save souls now! _ _   
_ _ John or James Watson? _ _   
_ _ Saint or Sinner? _ _   
_ _ James or John? _ _   
_ __ The more is Less?

Sherlock emerged from the living room shortly after she called for him, and Winnie offered him the mobile. Sherlock read the message for himself, and frowned. 

“What is it?” Winnie asked him. “Is it just spam?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, walking away from her, phone in hand. “It’s skip code. Every third word… Save John Watson. Saint James the Less.” He looked up, the phone falling from his hand to the floor as he raced to pull on his coat and scarf. “Now.” 

Winnie hurried and retrieved his phone before running after him down the stairs. “Where are we going?” she asked. 

“Saint James the Less. It’s a church,” Sherlock answered, racing out of the building and into the middle of the street. “Twenty minutes by car…” Winnie stopped next to him as he spun around in circles. “It’s too slow, it’s too slow…” He stopped as there was a beeping, and a motorbike pulled up short in front of them. 

“Sorry, mates, we need your bike,” he said to the two riding it. 

“Wait, what?” the man on the front asked as Sherlock started to push him off of the seat. 

“My friend is in danger, and I need to get someplace very quickly,” Sherlock told them. 

“We’ll bring it back here as soon as we can,” Winnie promised.

The two riders exchanged glances, and the woman shrugged her shoulders before pulling of her helmet and handing it to Winnie. “Save your friend,” she said to Sherlock. 

“Thank you,” Winnie said, climbing onto the motorbike behind her employer as he pulled on the man’s helmet. Sherlock revved the engine, and then they took off down the road, leaving the owners of the bike behind. 

In her hand, Sherlock’s mobile chimed, and she glanced down at the message. 

“We have ten minutes,” she called above the sound of the bike. “What are they going to do to him?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered. 

Two minutes or so passed before there was another message, telling them they had eight minutes left. Just after getting the message, they were stopped by a police barricade. Sherlock cursed a bit, and then he turned the bike to the left and took off down a darkened alleyway. 

“Oi! You can’t go down there!” an officer shouted after them, but Sherlock kept going all the same. They rode down a set of stairs, which led them onto another street. They tore down the street past a monument, and Sherlock’s mobile binged again. 

_ Better hurry. _ _   
_ _ Things are hotting up here… _

“Sherlock,” Winnie started, holding out the phone so that he could see it. The bike’s speed increased considerably, and they continued on down the street, swerving between traffic. 

_ Stay of execution.  _ _   
_ _ You’ve got two more minutes. _

Winnie gaped down at the phone as Sherlock suddenly veered off of the rode and went down into a tunnel off the side of the road, an abandoned station. It took them straight underground and out the other side again,. How Sherlock knew about all these shortcuts, Winnie didn’t know, but she was glad he did. They circled around the church, and she saw a crowd gathered around what appeared to be a mound of wooden things. A bonfire? 

“Sherlock, I think John is in there!” she shouted. 

Just as Sherlock pulled the bike to a stop, the bonfire began, and the crowd around it cheered loudly. There were children, jumping up and down in excitement. Sherlock jumped off of the bike, tossing away the helmet, and he raced through the crowd, pushing his way closer to the bonfire. 

Winnie was pulling off her own helmet when suddenly a loud, young female scream erupted from the crowd. Winnie dropped her helmet and ran towards the fire to help Sherlock free John. 

“John!” her employer exclaimed as he began to pull apart the bonfire. “John!” 

“Help!” came the responding cry from inside the fire. 

Unconcerned about possibly catching on fire himself, Sherlock pulled away burning wood to get to the center of the bonfire, and then he ducked and reemerged with John Watson, pulling him by the arms out into the open. 

Together, he and Winnie rolled John over onto his back, and Sherlock began to hit John’s cheeks, trying to keep him awake. 

“John?” he queried. Dr. Watson’s eyes fluttered a bit, and Winnie backed away to call for an ambulance, watching Sherlock tend to his friend. Thanks to his extensive knowledge, John was going to be fine. Winnie hoped John would know that, when he wasn’t struggling to think clearly and see.

Sherlock went with John in the ambulance, leaving Winnie to ride back to Baker Street and return the motorbike. When the couple had it back, Winnie exhaled, and then yawned widely. Too much excitement for thirty minutes. 

She decided to just say “Bugger it” and stay in the flat for the evening, since she wanted to be certain that John was all right. She dialed Mariah, and left her a message telling her of her whereabouts before she mounted the stairs and trudged her way up to the second floor of 221B Baker Street. 

Sherlock wouldn’t be opposed to her staying. She had just helped him save his best friend. Surely one night’s sleep in his flat wouldn’t offend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to pretend that Winnie is normal when I'm writing her and Sherlock at the same time. Sherlock is so not-normal that he makes Winnie seem like an average, second-hand character.   
> Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.


	4. It's All in the Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dream team figures out there's a bomb beneath the Palace of Westminster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Are they really the dream team, Wiggs?"  
> Yes, dear readers, they are. In my book, at least.

The following afternoon, Winnie awoke to the sound of voices, and she groaned a bit as she rolled over onto her back, blinking her eyes open. It took her a moment to realize where she was, but when she did, she exhaled and sat up. As she gazed around the bedroom she’d claimed the night before, she pulled her hair back into a bun on her neck. She then slid off of the bed and proceeded to get dressed into the clothing she’d worn the day before, finding it neatly folded on a chair in the corner of the room. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had washed them for her, as they smelled clean. 

Once she was dressed, she pulled open the bedroom door and started to creep down the stairs. The voices got louder as she did so, and she recognized one as a woman’s, an older woman’s. She seemed to be telling a story. 

“I said, ‘Have you checked down the back of the sofa?’ He’s always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren’t you, dear?” 

An older man’s voice responded with the affirmative. Winnie decided to enter the flat through the kitchen rather than go through the front. When she did, she spotted Sherlock first, seated in his chair with his hands pressed together before him. He met her gaze, and Winnie lifted a hand in greeting. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head ever so slightly to the left. 

Winnie understood what he was trying to say, and she nodded once before turning and retracing her steps so that she could enter the flat through the front door. As she made her way around, she ran into John Watson just as he was ascending the stairs. 

“Oh, Dr. Watson!” Winnie said, going down to meet him halfway. “You’re already up walking around? Is that safe?” 

“Uh, should be,” he said, blinking. “Sorry, who are you?” 

“Oh, right, we didn’t get to be properly introduced.” Winnie held out her hand. “I”m Winifred Reeves, Sherlock’s new PA. I was with him last night, at the church.” 

John blinked again, and then he shook her hand. “Right. Nice to meet you.” He gestured towards the door behind her. “Is Sherlock home?” 

“Yes, he is,” Winnie replied, “but I do believe he has company. Clients, maybe? Sounded like they were missing something.” She turned and started up the stairs, and opened the door. John entered the flat ahead of her, and Winnie followed right after. 

“John,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised. He was standing on the sofa between two elderly folks, marking something on his information wall. 

“Sorry, you’re busy,” John said, gesturing to the company. 

“No, no, no, they were just leaving,” Sherlock said, hopping off the sofa and taking the elderly woman by the arm. 

“No, oh, we were?” she asked him as he pulled her to her feet and started to usher her out the door. 

“Yes,” Sherlock told her. 

“If you’ve got a case…” John began, but Sherlock shook his head quickly, pulling up the man as well. 

“No, no, not a case.” 

“Yeah, well, we’re here till Saturday, remember,” the woman said to Sherlock, turning to face him as she walked towards the door. “Give us a ring.” 

“Very nice, yes, good. Get out,” Sherlock insisted, shuffling them out the door before he tried to close it on them. A boot in the way stopped it from shutting however, and Sherlock gave Winnie a warning glance. She nodded and scampered off so that she wouldn’t hear whatever it was the people had to say to Sherlock, and watched as John walked towards the window and gazed outside. 

After a moment, the door slammed, and both John and Winnie turned to face Sherlock, who exhaled and leaned back against the door. 

“Sorry about that,” he said after a moment. 

“No, it’s fine,” John answered. “Clients?”

“Just my parents,” Sherlock said, walking away from the door. 

Winnie blinked as John frowned. “Your parents?” 

“In town for a few days,” Sherlock explained. 

“Your parents?” Winnie asked, repeating John’s previous inquiry. 

“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of  _ Les Mis _ . Tried to talk me into doing it.” 

“Those were your parents?” John questioned, walking back over to the window to look outside again. 

“Yes.”

“Well.” John let out a chuckle. “That is not what I…” 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

John turned to face Sherlock. “I mean they’re just so… ordinary,” he said. 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s a cross I have to bear,” he said. 

John laughed again, and that’s when he realized Winnie was still in the room. He gestured to her. “So, I see you’ve replaced me already.” 

“Nope, not a replacement,” Winnie said before Sherlock could respond. “Just a PA.” 

“Huh.” John looked between the two of them before settling on Sherlock. “Just a nicer term for replacement, then.” 

“You’re still upset?” Sherlock guessed. 

“Did your parents know, too?” John asked him. “That you’ve spent the last two years playing hide and seek?” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. 

“Ah, so that’s why they weren’t at the funeral,” John concluded. 

“Sorry, sorry again,” Sherlock exclaimed. There was silence between the two, and Winnie pursed her lips before giving Sherlock a small nudge with her shoulder. He let out a breath, and looked at John. “Sorry.” There was more silence, and then Sherlock gestured to his upper lip. “So you shaved it off, then?” 

“Yeah,” John answered. “Wasn’t working for me.” 

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said. 

“You didn’t like it?” John asked, walking towards the two chairs. 

“No, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven,” Sherlock replied. 

John scoffed a bit. “That’s not a sentence you hear everyday,” he said, sitting down in the red chair. 

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment, and then looked at Winnie. “Tea?” he asked John. 

John glanced up at him, and then at Winnie, before back at Sherlock. “Maybe just a bit,” he said. 

Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen, and Winnie shuffled past John’s chair to do her task as Sherlock returned his attention to the doctor. “How are you feeling?” 

“Yeah, not bad,” John said. “Bit smoked.” 

“Right,” Sherlock agreed. 

Winnie glanced up from her task as more silence fell. She saw John shift a bit in his chair. “Last night,” he started, gazing up at Sherlock. “Who did that? And why did they target me?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Is it someone trying to get to you through me?” John guessed. “Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?” 

“I don’t know, I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous,” Sherlock answered. 

“Dr. Watson, do you take sugar?” Winnie asked during the brief silence that followed as Sherlock gazed at his information wall. 

“No,” John answered, “and you can call me John.” 

“Right,” Winnie said, turning back to the tea. 

Sherlock had walked away towards the wall. “Why would an agent give away his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange.” 

“Give his life?” John asked. 

“According to Mycroft,” Sherlock answered. 

Winnie slid out of the kitchen and set John’s cup of tea down on the table next to his chair. “Apparently, there’s an underground network planning an attack on London,” she said to him. “That’s all I know, anyhow.” 

“That’s all anyone knows,” Sherlock stated. He then gestured to the information wall with both hands. “These are my rats, John.” 

“Rats?” John asked, getting up from his chair. Winnie sighed to herself as another cup of tea she’d brewed was forgotten yet again, and she went to join the two men as they stood before the wall. 

“My markers,” Sherlock explained. “Agents, low-lifes. People who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something’s up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth…” Sherlock trailed off, and then jumped up onto the sofa and pointed to a picture. “Winnie, do you know this man?” 

She tilted her head as she studied the photograph he was pointing to. “Isn’t that… the guy from the train?” she asked after a moment. 

“I know him, too,” John said, glancing at her before looking at Sherlock again. “Don’t I?” 

“Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm. Minister for Overseas Development,” Sherlock stated. “Pillar of the Establishment.” 

“So… not the man from the train, then?” Winnie guessed. 

Sherlock ignored her, and turned to John. “He’s been working for North Korea since 1996.”

“What?” John asked. 

“He’s the big rat, rat number one,” Sherlock said. “He’s just done something very suspicious indeed.” Sherlock turned to Winnie. “Email Howard Shilcott, ask him to send the video we watched yesterday at his flat.” 

“So, he  _ was _ the man on the train?” Winnie asked as she walked towards Sherlock’s laptop and opened it to do as he’d asked her too. Within five minutes, they’d gotten the video clips, and Sherlock gestured for John to watch the screen. John walked over to the laptop and leaned close to it as Winnie hit play. 

He frowned as the tape started to loop. “Yeah, that is… odd,” he admitted. “No way for him to have gotten off?” 

“Not according to the maps,” Sherlock said, meaning the ones he and Winnie had collected the day before. 

“Hmm,” John mused, straightening up. 

“There’s something, something,  _ something _ I’m missing,” Sherlock insisted, walking across the flat in frustration. “Something staring me in the face.” His mobile beeped as John went across the flat towards his chair and picked up the cup of tea. 

“Any idea of who they are, this underground network?” 

Winnie saw Sherlock glance between his mobile and the information wall, frowning to himself. 

“Intelligence must have a list of the most obvious ones,” John continued, walking back to the laptop. 

“Sherlock?” Winnie queried, tilting her head as he glanced down at his mobile again. 

“Our rat’s just come out of his den,” he said under his breath. 

“Al Qaeda?” John asked from where he sat behind the laptop. “The IRA have been getting restless again, maybe they’re going to make a…” 

Sherlock interrupted him as he started to exclaim “Yes!” to himself, progressively getting louder each time. John turned away from the laptop and faced him. “I’ve been an idiot, a blind idiot!” 

“What?” John asked. 

“Oh, that’s good. That could be brilliant!” Sherlock declared, walking away from the information wall to the other side of the flat. 

“What are you on about?” John asked him, exchanging a confused look with Winnie. 

“Mycroft’s intelligence is not nebulous at all, it’s specific, incredibly specific,” Sherlock said, walking back the other direction. 

“What do you mean?” John queried. 

“Not an underground network, John, it’s an Underground network!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“Right,” John agreed, and then he frowned. “What?” 

“Winnie?” Sherlock began, and she glanced at him. He gestured to John. “Tell him.” 

Winnie gaped at her employer for a moment, but when she saw John staring at her, she exhaled, understanding what Sherlock meant. 

“Look,” she said, going over to the laptop and pulling up the footage again. She gestured to the screen. “Seven cars leave Westminster…” 

“Uh-huh…” 

“And only six cars arrive at St. James’s Park,” she finished. 

“But… that’s impossible,” John said, frowning at the screen. 

“It wasn’t just Moran that disappeared,” she said, looking at Sherlock, who was watching the interaction between the two. “The entire compartment did.” 

“The driver diverted the train and then detached the last carriage,” Sherlock concluded. 

“They’re cars,” Winnie corrected. 

“Detached it where?” John asked. “You said there was nothing between those stations.” 

“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth,” Sherlock told him. 

“It’s gone… so it has to be somewhere that hasn’t been marked on any map,” Winnie said to herself. She glanced at Sherlock. “Maybe a station that was going to be used, but… construction stopped, so they never bother adding it to any map?” 

“Possibly,” Sherlock replied. 

“But why detach it, though?” John asked. 

“It vanishes between St. James’s Park and Westminster,” Sherlock said, pacing away from them. “Lord Moran vanishes. You’re kidnapped and nearly burnt to death at a fireworks party…” Sherlock trailed off, and turned around to face them. “What’s today’s date?” he asked. 

“November 5th,” Winnie said before John could, and then she blinked. “Oh.” 

“My God,” John said, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. 

Sherlock walked towards his information wall. “Lord Moran, he’s a Peer of the Realm,” he started. “Normally, he’d sit in the House. Tonight there’s an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill. But he won’t be there, not tonight. Not the 5th of November.” 

“Remember, remember,” John said. 

“Gunpowder, treason and plot,” Sherlock concluded. 

“Is… Lord Moran going to set off a bomb?” Winnie asked them. 

Sherlock glanced at her. “Set up a video chat with Howard Shilcott,” he said. “We need to find that tram carriage.” 

“Car,” she muttered, taking the laptop away from John to set up the call. 

Ten minutes later, the three in Sherlock’s flat were searching through the maps that Sherlock and Winnie had collected from the library the day before. Howard Shilcott was on the other end of the video call on Sherlock’s laptop, searching through his own records.

“There’s nothing down there, Mr. Holmes,” Shilcott insisted. “I told you. No sidings, no ghost stations.”

“There has to be,” Sherlock argued, turning the laptop a bit. “Check again.” 

Winnie flipped a map she had nearby over and studied it as John frowned down at his. “This whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff,” he said. “Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations, like Trafalgar Square, Strand.”

“No, it's none of those,” Sherlock said. “We’ve accounted for those.” 

“It's got to be a station that was never marked,” Winnie insisted, reaching for a different map. “We’re not seeing it because it isn't on here.” 

“If you're not going to spout anything useful, go do it somewhere else,” Sherlock ordered, glaring down at the map in front of him. “St. Margaret Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street…” 

“Hang on, hang on,” Shilcott interrupted. “Sumatra Road. You mentioned Sumatra Road, Mr. Holmes. There  _ is _ something! I knew it rang a bell.” He leaned off to the side of the screen, and then straightened again, a map on his lap. “Yes. There was a station down there.” 

“Well, why isn't it on the maps?” John asked him. 

“Because it was closed before it ever opened.” Winnie gave Sherlock a haughty look, and her employer rolled his eyes before turning them back to the map. “They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it got all tied up in legal disputes so they never built the station on the surface.” 

Shilcott held up his book of maps and pointed to an area on one page. Sherlock straightened up. 

“It's right underneath the Palace of Westminster,” he said. 

“So there’s a  _ bomb _ under the Palace?” Winnie exclaimed. 

In response, Sherlock merely darted out of the flat. John let out a quiet, “Oh,” and then hurried after him, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair as he went. 

“Sherlock!” Winnie said, chasing after them. 

“Stay here,” Sherlock told her as they reached the bottom of the staircase and John hailed a taxi. 

“ _ What?  _ And leave the two of you to go disable a bomb?” Winnie asked in disbelief. 

“Danger was not a part of the job description,” Sherlock said.

“There  _ was _ no job description!” 

“Sherlock,” John said, holding the taxi door open. Sherlock glanced between the two of them, and then he took Winnie’s shoulders in his hands. 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he started, meeting her eyes. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, of course,” Winnie answered. 

“Wait two hours,” he said. “If I don't contact you in anyway in exactly two hours from now, call the police.” 

“Sherlock -” 

“Sherlock, we have got to go,” John insisted. 

“Got it?” Sherlock asked her. Winnie exhaled, and nodded. 

“Yeah, fine. Two hours.” 

“Good,” Sherlock said, letting her shoulders go. He climbed into the taxi, and John slid in after him, closing the door. The cab pulled away from the curb and headed off. Winnie watched it go, suddenly feeling very tiny in the vast expanse of the world. If Sherlock and John didn't get to that bomb in time… 

Oh, bugger. 

She turned and hurried back up the stairs to the flat, passing Mrs. Hudson on the way. 

“Where have they raced off to in such a hurry?” she asked. 

“Nowhere important,” Winnie answered, deciding to let Mrs. Hudson live in ignorance. It was better that way, so as not to insight a riot. 

She hurriedly grabbed for her mobile and checked the time. It was only six. 

How was she supposed to wait out two hours? 

Winnie found herself pacing across the flat as each minute slowly ticked by. The day grew darker beyond the window, and she didn't know whether or not the day had suddenly grown longer with the knowledge she carried. 

The abrupt ringing of her mobile scared her, and she answered it without bothering to check the caller I.D. 

“Sherlock?” she asked, a bit breathless. 

“What, no. It's me,” Mariah said on the other end. 

“Oh,” Winnie replied, a heavy dread creeping into her chest. It was seven thirty. “Sorry. What's going on?” 

“What do you mean, what's going on?” Mariah demanded. “You're the one who’s been gone for almost two days with barely a word! Sherlock’s keeping you busy, isn't he?” 

“You could say that,” Winnie agreed. “I don't know if I'll be home tonight, either.” 

“Why not?” Mariah asked hotly. 

“Because we’re busy,” Winnie answered, just as hotly. “Good lord, Mariah, give me a break, would you?” 

“A break? I've been worried sick about you!” Mariah exclaimed. 

“I left you a message last night,” Winnie said, pressing her palm against her forehead. 

“Yes, you did. ‘Hi, love, I'm staying at Sherlock’s tonight. Don't worry about me. See you tomorrow.’ Guess that last bit was a lie, wasn't it?” Mariah queried sourly. 

“Jesus, Mariah, I do not have  _ time _ for this right now,” Winnie told her. “We will talk later, all right? Tomorrow, I'll come home, and I'll talk to you. But I have to hang up now, because there is something important that I have to do.” 

“What is it?” Mariah asked, her anger receding a bit. 

Winnie bit on her tongue. “I can't tell you.” 

“What?” And there was the anger again. 

“Later, Mariah, okay? I have to go.” 

“Winifred Reeves, do  _ not  _ hang up the phone.” 

“I  _ have  _ to.” Winnie lowered her mobile and ended the phone call, inhaling a bit. She then glanced at the time. Twenty five minutes. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” she said to her phone, crossing the flat. She sat down on the edge of his chair, gripping her mobile tightly in her hands. 

Twenty minutes. Ten. Five. 

The clock turned to eight, and Winnie exhaled the breath she'd been holding, before dialing the operator. 

“Scotland Yard, please,” she said into the mobile. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Lestrade,” Lestrade said on the other end a moment later. 

“Inspector? It's Winnie Reeves, Sherlock’s PA,” she said. “I think Sherlock needs some help.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

“There is a bomb in an abandoned part of the Tube line underneath the Palace of Westminster,” Winnie explained, amazed at how calm she sounded. “Sherlock and John went down there to deactivate it, but… I don't think they've done it. Oh, uh, and Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm, is behind it all.” 

Lestrade exhaled on the other end. “We’re on our way,” he said, and then the call ended. Winnie swallowed thickly and lowered her mobile. 

“Stupid idiots,” she muttered to herself, and then she stood and grabbed for her coat before running down the stairs and out of the building. She held up her hand. “Taxi!” 

Within thirty minutes, she was climbing out of the taxi just outside the abandoned staircase that led down into the abandoned station. The area was littered with police cars and ambulances, and there was people, both policemen and public, all over. 

Winnie ducked under the caution tape separating the public from the policemen, and she gazed around the scene, trying to spot Sherlock or John or both. 

“Hey, you can't cross that!” a policeman exclaimed, starting towards her. 

“My friends are here somewhere,” Winnie said, holding up her hands. “I just want to make sure they're all right.” 

“Everything is fine,” the policeman said. “Nothing happened. Everything is under control. I need you to get back behind the tape.” 

“You listen to me, you ape,” Winnie started, her voice lowering to a dark growl. “I'm the one who called and reported this bloody thing, so if you don't let me pass to look for my friends, I am going to have Detective Lestrade  _ fire _ you.” 

The officer narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me?” 

“Oh, God,” Winnie groaned, covering her face with her hands. “You really are as dumb as Sherlock thinks.” 

“Whitman!” She lowered her hands at a familiar voice, and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade jogging towards them. He came to a stop and took Winnie’s arm. “She’s allowed though.” 

Officer Whitman glared at Winnie as she scowled back and allowed Lestrade to lead her away from him. 

“Sorry about him,” the detective inspector apologized. “We’re all a bit on edge.” 

“It's fine,” Winnie exhaled, glancing around the seen for either Sherlock or John. She saw neither, and returned her attention to Lestrade. “What happened?” 

“After you called, we sent out a call for all nearby units to get to the Palace,” Lestrade responded. “A few of my division went down in the tunnels, and it only took us fifteen minutes to find the missing tram carriage.” 

“It's a car,” Winnie said quietly. 

“Sorry?” Lestrade asked. 

Winnie blinked and shook her head. “Nothing, never mind. How about Sherlock and John? Are they okay?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Lestrade said. He pointed. “They're over in the back of that ambulance. Sherlock was able to disable the bomb before we arrived.” 

“Oh, thank God,” Winnie exhaled, pressing a hand against her forehead in relief. “When Sherlock didn't contact me, I thought for sure they were both dead, and the whole of the Palace of Westminster.” She let out a dry chuckle and lowered her hand. “Should've known better, right?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Better to be safe than sorry, even when Sherlock Holmes is involved.” He paused. “Actually… better to be safe than sorry  _ especially _ when Sherlock Holmes is involved.” 

Winnie laughed, more authentically this time, and then sighed. “I’d better go see them. Thank you for not thinking I was crazy when I called.” 

“No problem,” Lestrade replied, grinning. Winnie turned away from him and jogged towards the ambulance he’d pointed too. Sherlock and John were seated in the open back-end of it, and Sherlock was the first to notice her approach. 

“Ah, good,” he said, shrugging out of the shock blanket he was wrapped in. “I was wondering if you’d come.” 

Winnie stopped in front of the two of them, and glared. “I cannot believe the two of you,” she said, annoyed. 

“In my defense, I thought it was a bad idea,” John said. 

“So why didn't  _ you _ call the police?” Winnie demanded of him. 

“I tried, but Sherlock said no,” John replied. 

“Because it was unnecessary,” Sherlock said. “It was your job to call the police,” he went on to Winnie. 

“Which I did,” she said. 

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock agreed. He smirked. “Very good work.” 

“I'm going to bloody murder you,” Winnie promised. 

“You're not the only one who’s said that to me this evening,” Sherlock responded. 

Winnie glanced at John, and then she closed her eyes for a moment before looking at Sherlock. “Does Mycroft know you solved his problem for him?”

“Of course he does,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft always knows.” 

Winnie turned her eyes to the dark sky, and let out a hoarse laugh. “I can’t believe this,” she said. 

“Can't believe what?” Sherlock asked. 

“I called Scotland Yard to report a bomb as apart of my job,” she replied, returning her gaze to him. “Guess I should have known something of the sort would happen when I learned you were investigating terrorists.” 

Sherlock smiled. “All in the job description, yes?” 

“Sod off,” Winnie grumbled. 


	5. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some strange after effects of the bomb-discovery happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize I didn't post a chapter last weekend until Wednesday, and then I was too lazy to upload anything, because I didn't want to proofread, but I'm here now.  
> On another note, six kudos! You guys are really sweet.

After two days of paperwork and police inquiries, Winnie found herself standing at the door of 221B Baker Street, holding the attention of many reporters who wanted to hear the story of the bomb discovery and the disabling of it.

“Mr. Holmes will be down shortly,” she assured them. “He knows that you all are eager to learn how he did it, and he is willing to take questions. The panel will only last twenty minutes, as Mr. Holmes had other obligations to fill.”

When she was done speaking, she was met with questions being thrown at her, each started with the reporters trying to gain her attention by beginning with her last name, repeated twice.

“Ms. Reeves, Ms. Reeves, can you comment on Sherlock’s fake death?”

“Ms. Reeves, Ms. Reeves, what is your knowledge about Mr. Holmes’s relationship with Dr. Watson?”

“Ms. Reeves, Ms. Reeves, how did you get involved with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

“Ms. Reeves, Ms. Reeves, what is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Ms. Reeves, Ms. Reeves, how do you feel about being Dr. Watson’s replacement?”

“Bugger,” Winnie sighed to herself. Thankfully, she was brushed behind Sherlock as he came out of the building, wearing his hat and everything.

“Spare Ms. Reeves, ladies and gentlemen,” he started, causing a hush to fall over the crowd of gathered reporters. “I will answer your questions to the best of my capabilities.” Winnie was shuffled between him and John, and then pushed into the building before the door closed. She gazed at it, listening to the sound of excited voices asking questions, and she smiled to herself before turning and heading up the stairs to the flat.

“Ah, Winnie,” Lestrade greeted as she entered the flat. “How'd it go?”

“Fine,” she said, “although I think half of London believes Sherlock and I are dating.”

“Hah,” Lestrade said, although it sounded disconcerted.

Winnie accepted the glass of champagne Mrs. Hudson offered her, and turned to the other guests in the flat. “Ah, Molly Hooper, I'm guessing,” she said, holding out her hand to the young woman.

“Yes, hello Ms. Reeves,” Molly replied.

“It's good to meet you,” Winnie said. “Sherlock’s mentioned you.”

Molly smiled a bit, and gestured to the man standing beside her. “This is Tom, my fiancé.”

“Hell - oh!” Winnie said, stammering a bit when she looked up at Tom’s face.

Thankfully, he hadn't noticed her stammer, and he grinned warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Winnie agreed, her voice cracked. She stepped away from them and towards Lestrade. “Am I…?” She gestured towards Tom, and Lestrade shook his head.

“Not at all,” he answered.

“Right,” she said, blinking.

“So, uh, I was wanting to ask you if you'd like to go out sometime,” Lestrade said after a moment of silence between them. Winnie glanced over at him in surprise, and he cleared his throat. “I mean, only if you don't think I've lost my mind by asking.”

“Uhm…” Winnie trailed off and moved towards the window so that she could look outside, and avoid looking at the inspector at the same time. “It's… it's kind of you to offer, but…”

“You're not interested?” Lestrade guessed.

“No, it's not that. It's just… Sherlock’s called you by at least three first names starting with G, and I still don't know what your name actually is.”

Lestrade let out a laugh from where he stood behind her. “It's Greg,” he said. “My name is Greg.”

Winnie turned around to face him, and smiled before offering her hand. “Nice to meet you, Greg.”

Lestrade glanced down at her hand, and then shifted his champagne glass to his other so that he could shake it. “Nice to meet you, too.”

The conversation between the two continued, but the query of a date was not brought up again by either of them. By the time Sherlock and John returned up to the flat, Molly and Tom were preparing to leave, and Lestrade was getting a call on his mobile. He excused himself and went off into the kitchen to answer it as Sherlock peeled off his coat and hat, and hung them up.

“How'd it go?” Winnie asked.

“As any press interview goes,” he replied.

Winnie looked to John for more information. Dr. Watson exhaled a bit and glanced away from her.

Before Winnie could question him aloud, Lestrade returned from the kitchen, sliding away his mobile.

“Got to be off,” he said to the room. “Have some business to take of.”

“We’ll be seeing you soon, though?” Winnie asked him.

Lestrade’s eyes seemed to light up a bit at the question, and he nodded. “Soon enough we’ll have a case we need Sherlock’s help with,” he answered, grinning. “Afternoon.”

“Bye,” John said as he exited the flat, and then John closed the door and leaned back against it, sighing to himself.

“John,” Sherlock began.

“Hm?”

“Where have you been living?”

“I uh, found a flat closer to where I've been working,” John responded, glancing between Sherlock and Winnie. “It's about… oh, ten blocks or so from here.”

“Huh,” Sherlock said, studying his mobile. “Interesting.”

“How so?” Winnie asked him, frowning.

“Well, you're going to need to live closer to Baker Street than you do presently, and since John is going to move back in with me -”

“Haven't agreed to that yet.”

“- I was thinking that perhaps you could take John’s current flat,” Sherlock finished, ignoring the statement John had thrown into the middle.

Winnie gazed at her employer, blinking. “That's… huh.”

“What?” Sherlock queried.

“I mean, I just assumed that, now that John’s back, you won't be needing me anymore,” she said, walking across the flat to sit down in Sherlock’s chair.

“How many times must I say it?” Sherlock asked no one in particular. “You were _not_ John’s replacement.”

“But, now that he's back, what am I meant to do?” Winnie queried. “Spout my ‘useless information’?”

“I'm sure it's not all useless,” Sherlock started.

“Maybe not, but you don't need me anymore. You got along quite fine when it was just you and John.” Winnie gazed down at the floor, her hands around the arms of Sherlock’s chair. “Having me around will only complicate things.”

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, and glanced at John. “Could we have a moment alone?” he asked him.

“Uh…” John didn't look happy with the idea, but he conceded after seeing Sherlock’s expression. “Fine.”

John exited the front room of the flat and headed towards the bedrooms. When he was gone, Sherlock approached Winnie where she was sitting in his chair.

“This is that lifestyle thing I mentioned before,” he told her.

Winnie glanced up from the floor, frowning. “What?”

“You're afraid of this, not because you don't think you'll be useful, but because you're afraid of settling down.” Sherlock paced in front of the chair, his hands behind his back. “It's why you didn't agree to a date with Lestrade.”

“How did you know he asked?” Winnie questioned in surprise.

“He asked me if you ever get days off,” Sherlock explained. Winnie smiled a bit and returned her eyes to the floor. Sherlock glanced over at her. “Settling down is not the phrase I’d use when I refer to working with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“Maybe not,” Winnie admitted under her breath, “but I'll have found a steady job, and a place to live.” She looked up at Sherlock again. “Sounds like settling to me.”

Sherlock let out a breath and approached the chair. He squatted down in front of it and met Winnie’s eyes. “Ms. Reeves, I know that I must be a bit standoffish,” he started, “but it's only because I find everyone to be inferior to myself.”

“I'm glad you recognized this and admitted it to yourself,” Winnie said, smirking.

“I'm not much for sentiment, either, but… I do know that there is something different about you, about the way you think,” Sherlock continued. Winnie lost her smirk when she saw how serious Sherlock’s expression had gotten. “It's something that I need, in order to solve crimes like the terrorist one. It's…”

“What, Sherlock?” Winnie persisted.

Sherlock glanced upwards. “You have a way of seeing the world differently from others. You are able to pinpoint the tiniest, miniscule reasons why something is or isn't, like you did with the station below the Palace.”

“That was just common sense,” Winnie said.

“Call it what you like, but I don't have it, and, I'm afraid to say, neither does John,” Sherlock continued. “We need you, Winnie, as much as I wish we didn't.”

“Why do you wish that?” Winnie asked, wondering if Sherlock viewed her as a weakness.

“Because I don't want to put anymore of my friends in the way of danger,” Sherlock replied.

Winnie let out a laugh. “Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes,” she began, rising from the chair, “danger seems to follow you.”

Sherlock stood up as well. “You'll stay with us, then?”

Winnie sighed, and glanced towards the flat’s windows. “My friend is going to be _so_ relieved that I'm moving out,” she said after a moment. Sherlock smiled, and Winnie looked up at him. “About John…”

“Oh, he’ll get used to the idea,” Sherlock interrupted, knowing what she wanted to say. “After all… he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

“Oh, God,” Winnie groaned, walking away from him.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “It's a phrase.”

“Yes, and you should not use phrases,” Winnie told him.

“Why?”

“Because the phrase ‘ladies man’ does not mean what you implied it too,” Winnie said. She then walked towards the kitchen, pulling out her mobile as she did so. Exhaling, she dialed Mariah’s number, and then put the phone to her ear.

“Winifred Margaret Reeves, where the _hell_ are you?” her friend demanded from the other end of the line.

“Sherlock’s,” Winnie replied.

“ _Why_?”

“There was a press conference, if you can call an unofficial question and answer on the front steps a press conference,” Winnie said. “It'll probably be all over the Net, if you want to watch it.”

“Winnie, I want you to come home,” Mariah told her.

“I will, but we'll have to talk while I pack.”

“While you _pack_? What does that mean?”

“It means, Ms. Hoover, that I am moving out of your flat and into one of my own,” Winnie informed her. “I'd thought you might like hearing that.”

“Not when you've only been working for a week,” was Mariah’s response. “How in the world can you already have enough money to move?”

“Well, it's sort of interesting, actually,” Winnie started, but then John came into the kitchen, and she had to cut the conversation short. “Listen, I'll be home within the hour, and then we’ll talk.”

“We better,” Mariah grumbled.

Winnie lowered her mobile and ended the call, and turned to face John. He gestured to it.

“Disgruntled flatmate?”

“More like peeved-off best friend,” Winnie replied, sliding her mobile away. “Sorry, did you need something?”

“Sherlock’s asked you to stay on, hasn't he?” John queried.

“He has,” Winnie agreed, although she could feel her hackles rising. This conversation was only going to get worse as it went on. She could feel it. “Does that offend you, Dr. Watson?”

“I asked you to call me John,” he said after a moment. “If we’re going to be working together, we should at least be on a first name basis.”

Winnie let out a breath. “You don't like me, do you?”

“I don't think you're going to be very fun to have around, no.”

“You shouldn't blame me for becoming Sherlock’s friend when you were angry with him,” Winnie said.

“Sherlock doesn't have friends. He has liabilities. You are a liability,” John told her.

“Then what are you?” Winnie queried, crossing her arms.

John stared at her for a moment, and then he breathed outwards through his nose. “I'm the only one who he’s let in.”

“Well, then maybe it bothers you that that may change,” Winnie said.

“There’s something about _you_ ,” John started, “that bothers me.”

Winnie inhaled, and then forced a pleasant grin onto her face. “I look forward to working with you, Dr. Watson,” she said.

She left him in the kitchen, bid Sherlock farewell, and then walked down the stairs and out of the flat. She had to get home and start packing up her miniscule amounts of belongings so that she could move in and force John out as quickly as possible.

Was she petty? Maybe a bit, but Dr. Watson needed to be put into place. She’d tried to talk Sherlock out of it, but he was adamant that she stay on as his PA. Who was she to say no to that?

When she’s reached Mariah’s flat, she found her friend standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, and a glare on her face.

Winnie sighed. “Hello, Mariah.”

“What the hell are you thinking?” Mariah asked sourly as Winnie set down her bag and keys on the counter.

“I'm thinking that I haven't felt like my life was going well for the last five months,” Winnie replied, “and that this is my chance to move on.”

“You're changing _everything_ after a week of working with this guy,” Mariah exclaimed, dropping her arms. “Does that not worry you at all?”

“No, it doesn't,” Winnie answered plainly. “I like my job. It's what I've been waiting for. Are you really going to try and turn me away from it?”

“I just don't want you to uproot your whole life for it.”

“What _life_ , Mariah?” Winnie asked her. “Tell me what I'll be losing if I decide to go with this.”

Mariah exhaled, and glanced away. “I don't know.”

“Right,” Winnie agreed. “Let me make my own decisions. You're not my mother.” She exited the kitchen and headed for her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Exhaling heavily, she sank down on the edge of her bed and glanced around the room. From the wall of pictures across the way, to the frilly purple carpets, you would think it belonged to a teenager.

Winnie scoffed at the irony and stood up again, waking across the room to the wall of photos. She grabbed one by the edge and pulled it off the wall, glancing down at it. Her and her elder brother, Peter, who was a lawyer, just like Mariah, and probably making their parents a lot prouder than Winnie was. Not that she resented him for it. He had always been the golden child.

She set the picture down and reached for another one. The family trip to Disneyland Paris. Lovely place, but Winnie had been the only one who could communicate with the workers in their mother language, so it made the trip sort of… difficult. The employees knew some English, but not a lot, leaving Winnie to translate for her family. It got to be a tad bit old, and she ended up not enjoying the trip as much as she would’ve if she had been on her own.

This picture joined the one already on her nearby dresser, and she reached for the one she had of her parents, Sarah and Alexander. Dear old Dad was a banker, and Mum was a history professor at Oxford. Both were happy and content, although they seemed a bit frustrated with the small amount of grandchildren they had been given, namely from Winnie herself. Not from Peter, of course, who’s lovely, skinny blonde veterinarian wife had gifted him with two equally blonde children, twins, in fact, a boy and a girl.

There was a picture of them on her wall actually, which Winnie pulled off when she had set the one of her parents down. Kevin and Elizabeth. Gorgeous children, but little devils when given too much candy. Auntie Winnie had learned that the hard way.

Winnie set her niece and nephew down beside her parents and glanced at the remaining photos. One in particular caught her eye, and she reached for it, her throat burning with unshed tears as she looked down at it.

She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head to herself before turning away from the wall and carrying the photo in hand to the waste bin near the foot of her bed. She nearly dropped the picture into it, and then let out a breath. She should have thrown that picture away a long time ago. It was hard to put away the past, however.

It would be just as hard to move out of Mariah’s flat and into one of her own.

She had too, though. To move on. It had been too long. It was high time. And all those phrases that say the same thing.

Winnie glanced around the room once more. It had been a good space for her to get back onto her feet. She would have to tell Mariah that.

Her mobile buzzed from where it was in her pocket. She pulled it out and found a text message from an unknown number. When she opened it, however, she had to smile to herself.

 

She was typing out a response when her mobile buzzed again, another text from the number appearing in the message thread.

Winnie actually laughed at this, and she typed out a different response and sent it to him. 

As an afterthought, she added:

She added Greg as a contact. Her mobile buzzed after a minute, no doubt because he had been trying to come up with a witty response. She saw, from his message, that the time had been well spent. 

Winnie smirked to herself and started to write out her own flirtatious response when her phone buzzed again. Losing the smirk when she saw who it was from, she wasted no time in replying.

And Sherlock's own response was spontaneous. 

Winnie decided to respond to Greg before she forgot the cute reply she’d come up with.

Then she responded to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, so she returned to the thread she had with Greg.

Winnie sighed and set her mobile down on the bed for a moment. She didn’t want to avoid it, no, she just wasn’t sure she wanted to go on a date. She’d known the detective inspector for barely a week, and she’d only learned his first name a few hours prior, granted through no fault of their own. 

Still… he  _ was  _ handsome.

She sent him a response that she hoped was flirty and sincere at the same time. She then returned to the thread with Sherlock and typed up a second message to go along with her first:

                                          

When neither man responded after another two minutes, Winnie decided to give it time. She plugged her mobile into its charger, and then headed out of her bedroom. 

Mariah was no longer in the kitchen. Winnie sighed to herself when she saw that her friend had gone out: her keys and bag were gone from where they usually sat on the table next to the front door. Maybe she’d have to send Mariah a text as well. 

When she returned to her bedroom after snacking on some crisps for a while, she found no new messages waiting for her. She sat down on the edge of her bed. She couldn’t start packing until she knew that 221C would suit her, and she couldn’t confirm or deny a date with Greg until Sherlock agreed to time off the following day. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” she said to her mobile, plucking it from the charger. It had charged completely in the time she’d spent out of her room, thankfully. Often times, she let it get so close to dead that she wondered whether or not she would be kidnapped one day because of it. 

It buzzed in her hand, and she quickly looked down at it. Sherlock had responded to both of her requests in one text.

Winnie shook her head to herself before replying. 

A minute later, her mobile rang, and she sighed before answering the call. “Didn’t you tell me you prefer to text?” she asked. 

“Are you going to come see the flat?” Sherlock queried on the other end. 

“Uh… not today, no.” 

“Why not?” 

“Sherlock, I was just at 221B two hours ago,” Winnie sighed. “I don’t want to take another 30-minute cab ride back there.” 

“Fine, but tomorrow,” Sherlock insisted, “before your date.” 

“So I can go out, then?” Winnie asked him. 

“I never said you couldn't,” Sherlock responded dryly. “You have to come see 221C first, however. It took some convincing to get Mrs. Hudson to lower the price.” 

“Oh, boo,” Winnie said, frowning. “That is a lie, and I know it.” 

“Do you agree or not?” Sherlock asked her. 

Winnie grumbled to herself for a moment, but sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow, at noon. Should I start packing, or will I find the flat disagreeable?”

“I'll leave that up to you, Ms. Reeves,” Sherlock said. “Give Gavin my well wishes.”

“His name is Greg.” 

“Whatever.”

Winnie smiled to herself. “Bye, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock grunted a response, and Winnie lowered her mobile and ended the call before sending Greg a message.

With that, she returned to the wall where her photographs were waiting for her, and she started to pull them down one by one. They joined the ones that were already on her dresser, and soon, the wall was completely cleared of pictures. It was kind of sad looking once it was bare. 

Winnie gazed at the empty wall for a moment before turning away from it and picking up the photos. She reached for the box she kept her minimal amount of jewelry in and gently set the captured memories down inside of it. It took a few tries, but she finally got it closed. 

As she was glancing around her room, deciding whether or not she would waste time getting boxes or just shove everything into big black garbage bags, there was a knock on her closed door. It opened to reveal Mariah, who looked sad. 

“Need help?” she asked Winnie. 

Winnie exhaled and shrugged. “Maybe a little bit. I don't know if I should use boxes or not.” 

“You don't really have a lot of stuff,” Mariah said, stepping into the room. 

“Right, so boxes might be a waste of time.” 

Mariah crossed the room to get to the closet and pulled it open. Winnie’s miniscule wardrobe barely took up half the rack inside of it. “You could get away with using bags,” Mariah said after a moment. 

“That's what I was thinking,” Winnie agreed. 

“I'll go get some,” Mariah said, walking away from the closet and out of the room again. She returned a moment later, garbage bags in hand, to find Winnie sitting on the floor in front of her dresser and pulling out the clothing in there. She wasn't sorting the different articles into piles; they'd just get messed up in the bags anyhow.

Mariah dropped a few bags next to her and went back to the closet to take care of the shirts hanging in it. The flatmates packed Winnie’s clothing in silence. 

After some time, Mariah finished with the shirts and glanced over her shoulder to where Winnie sat in front of her dresser. All the drawers had been cleared out, and now hung open, looking depressed and empty. 

“Is that it, then?” Mariah asked, breaking the silence. 

“I guess it is,” Winnie replied quietly. “I really don't have much, do I?” 

“No,” Mariah said, “not really.” 

“Huh.” Winnie stood up and glanced towards where her mobile lay on the bed. As though on cue, it buzzed. 

She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge to reply to the message Greg had sent her. 

“Who’s that?” Mariah asked as she typed. 

“A date,” Winnie answered, sending off the message. 

“You have a date?” Mariah questioned, sounding surprised. 

“Yes, I do,” Winnie replied, setting her phone back down. “And wouldn’t you like to know about him.” 

“I would, actually,” Mariah said, walking over to the bed as well. She lounged down on the end and propped her chin up in her hand. “Tell me.” 

“His name is Greg Lestrade, and he’s a detective inspector at New Scotland Yard,” Winnie told her. 

“Ooh,” Mariah said, grinning wickedly. “Is he cute?” 

“Well… I guess you could say that,” Winnie said, chuckling. “The word I’d use is handsome.” 

“How old is he?” Mariah queried. 

“Not sure,” Winnie admitted, “but older than me, probably. He asked me out earlier, and I just got approved for time off tomorrow night. We’ll probably just go out to dinner.” Her mobile buzzed, and she glanced down at it.

“Has he been married before, then?” Mariah inquired. 

Winnie glanced up from typing a text, and met her friend’s eyes. “Does it matter?” 

“No, not unless you care,” Mariah replied. “I was just wondering.” 

“I'm sure we’ll talk about it over dinner,” Winnie said, and then finished her text and sent it Greg’s way.

“I’m going to guess you met him through Holmes,” Mariah said.

“Yes,” Winnie said, watching her mobile. “Sherlock introduced us on my first day of work, actually.” 

Content, Winnie put her mobile down and looked at Mariah. Her friend was watching her, a curious expression on her face. 

“What?” Winnie asked. 

“Nothing,” Mariah replied. “I've just never seen you smile at your mobile like that. You must like this guy.” 

“I think I might,” Winnie said after a moment. “Is that bad? I barely know him.” 

“But that's what dates are for,” Mariah pointed out. “You'll find out if you actually like him tomorrow night. Right now, it's just a physical attraction because he’s handsome.” 

Winnie pondered this for a moment, and then nodded in agreement. “You're right. Okay. So the date is necessary.” 

“Yes, Winnie,” Mariah said, laughing. “The date is necessary, and you'll have a good time during it.” 

“Oh, but Mariah, what in the world do I wear?” Winnie exclaimed. 

“Don't worry, I'll help you pick something right now so that you don't have to worry about it tomorrow,” Mariah said, reaching for one of the bags that held Winnie’s packed clothing. Winnie watched as she reached into it and started searching, pulling out articles of clothing and studying them before putting them back into the bag and rooting around some more. 

After a moment, Mariah let out a “Ahah!” and withdrew a soft gray and white striped sweater dress. She showed it to Winnie, who sighed. 

“Isn’t that too casual?” she asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Mariah replied. “It shows off your curves, and it’s warm enough for the cold weather.” Mariah glanced down at it. “Just make sure you wear your tights.” 

Winnie nodded and took the dress from her. She held it up against her torso and gazed down at it for a moment. She finally looked up at Mariah again. “Okay, you’re really good at this. Why’d you decide to be a lawyer and not a designer?” 

Mariah laughed. “Designing is different from styling. Besides, I like my job.” 

Winnie shook her head and glanced down at the time on her mobile. “Oh, look,” she said. “ _ Raven’s Wood _ starts soon. We better get to the TV.” 

She hopped up off of her bed and started towards the door of the room. When she didn’t hear Mariah follow, however, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. Mariah had sat up, but she hadn’t moved off of the bed. 

“What?” Winnie asked her. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow, but you’re acting like nothing’s changing,” Mariah responded. 

“I’m just moving out,” Winnie said, frowning. She turned around entirely. “It’s not like I’m going away forever.” 

“I know, I just…” Mariah sighed outwards. “You’re moving out. I’ve gotten used to seeing you everyday, and now that I won’t… it’s going to be sort of strange.” 

Winnie tilted her head and gave her friend a smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t stay away for long. But… it’s time for me to get back out into the world, you know? Move on.” 

Mariah seemed to fall into herself at that, because her expression softened. She blinked at Winnie, and then rose from the bed and walked over to her. After a moment, she hugged Winnie tightly. 

“I know you don't care, but I'm proud of you,” Mariah said quietly. 

Winnie returned the hug with zero hesitation, chuckling. “Actually, you don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that,” she replied. Mariah pulled out of the hug, and Winnie gave her a grin. “I couldn't have made it through these last few months without you,” she went on, “so… thank you.” 

“Not necessary,” Mariah said, shaking her head. “We’re friends.” 

“Best friends?” Winnie asked hopefully. 

Mariah let out a laugh. “Best friends,” she confirmed.

“Good!” Winnie said, abruptly stepping out into the hall. “Then let's go watch our favorite show, bestie!” 

Mariah laughed again as she followed Winnie to the living room, and Winnie was glad, because she didn't want Mariah to be upset she was moving out. It was a good thing, for both of them. She needed to make sure Mariah felt the same way. 

After spending the next hour watching _Raven’s_ _Wood_ , with their typical exclaiming of stupid mistakes characters made, and their typical, “Why don't you just _talk_ to one another?” demands, the two settled back to discuss possible chances of seeing one another shortly after Winnie moved out. 

Because of how busy Mariah was, however, and how unpredictable Winnie’s own schedule was, there wasn't really any plans they could make immediately. They would have to play it by ear. 

“Don't stay away for long, though, all right?” Mariah said. “If nothing else, we’ll video chat and watch  _ Raven’s Wood _ together, right?” 

“Exactly,” Winnie agreed, grinning. “Don't worry.”

And Mariah wasn't. She  _ was _ proud of Winnie, and she hoped her friend knew it. She also hoped that her new job wouldn't go to her head. Winnie let that happen too often for her own good.

She couldn't take care of her friend forever, though. It was like Winnie said, and time to move on. 

All Mariah could do now was watch from the sidelines as much as possible. 

Hopefully, it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOH, GIRL.  
> Pictures are a PAIN IN THE ASS.  
> But they're cool. I like using them. It's more authentic than just italicizing texts, don't ya think?


	6. The Second Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dream Team solves their second mystery together, like Scoobs and the gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem.   
> First of all, I'm not going to edit any of these chapters. Someone asked me to continue this, and I decided to give in, because I have over 140 pages of it to give, so it's going to keep going until I run out of stuff to post.   
> Secondly, that basically means there's no plot.   
> Enjoy!

The following morning, after loading her things into a cab’s trunk, Winnie bid Mariah and Mariah’s flat farewell, and directed the cabbie towards what she hoped would be her new home. 

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for her when she arrived, lugging in her two bags of clothing and other items. 

“Goodness, is this all?” Mrs. Hudson asked in astonishment. 

“Yes ma’am,” Winnie replied. “I'm gonna go store this in Sherlock’s flat, and then I'll be right back down.” 

“All right, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling brightly. 

Winnie lugged her bags up the stairs, huffing as she went. When she reached the top, she was relieved to find the door unlocked. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his feet propped up on one arm. Winnie could hear John moving around in the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Winnie greeted, dropping her bags. “I'm leaving these here, okay?” 

Sherlock didn't respond, and Winnie sighed to herself before raising her voice. “John?” 

“Yeah, fine,” he called back. 

Winnie nodded to herself and retreated back out of the flat and down the stairs once more. Mrs. Hudson had opened the door to the basement stairs that would lead them down into 221C. 

Winnie examined the doorway for a moment, humming to herself. 

“But ominous, isn't it?” she asked Mrs. Hudson. 

“That's just because there’s no natural lighting,” the landlady said, flicking a lightswitch on the inner wall of the door. A small lightbulb began to glow with a weak yellow light above them, barely lighting up the dark staircase. But, Winnie supposed, it probably only needed to be changed in order to shine brighter. 

“So down these stairs in the door to the flat itself,” Mrs. Hudson said, beginning to make her way down them. Winnie followed, suppressing a sneeze as dust flitted about her nose. She'd have to clean the stairwell. 

They reached the bottom and were faced with another door, unmarked. Mrs. Hudson produced a key and unlocked it, and gestured for Winnie to enter first. She did, and frowned a bit to herself once she laid eyes on the interior of the flat. 

The room was small, as front rooms go. A single sofa sat in one corner, and there were two tiny window placed at the very top of the wall. Winnie assumed that if she got up high enough to look out them, she'd see the pavement, and the street beyond that. 

To her right was a doorway without doors, leading into what appeared to be a very outdated kitchen. Two more doors sat right next to each other on the wall to the left of the sofa. 

As a whole, 221C was, in a word, sad. 

“Well, what do you think, lamb?” Mrs. Hudson queried as Winnie peered around the room. She wrinkled her nose a bit as she examined the peeling walls and the dirty, old floorboards, and then she turned around to face Mrs. Hudson. 

“It needs some work,” she admitted. 

“Yes, it does,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, stepping down to join Winnie in the main room. “But there’s a single bedroom and a bathroom, just the right size for you, and you’ll be so close to the boys.” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly. “And, if I may say so, the price is exquisite.” 

“True,” Winnie said, laughing. “I suppose I can put some extra money into it, bring it up to snuff.” She inhaled a bit and turned to face Mrs. Hudson. “Do you think I can stay upstairs while it’s being worked on?” 

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” Mrs. Hudson said, going over to one of the doors on the side of the room and opening it. She let out a small gasp and quickly closed the door again, leaning back against it. “It’s probably best if you get the work started sooner rather than later, love.” 

“Well, I would, if Sherlock would pay me,” Winnie sighed. She gestured to the door Mrs. Hudson was standing in front of. “Is that the bedroom?” 

“Bathroom,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Afraid it’s in more of a bad way than this room.”

“Right,” Winnie replied after a moment. She glanced around the flat and then raised and lowered her shoulders. “Well, I’ll see about getting this place fixed up, and ask Sherlock if staying upstairs is acceptable.” 

“Lovely,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling again. She moved away from the bathroom and started back up the stairs that led to the ground floor. Winnie remained where she was for a moment, gazing around her future flat, and then she made her way after Mrs. Hudson. 

Once they were on the ground floor, Mrs. Hudson handed Winnie the key she’d used to open the door to 221C. 

“Really?” Winnie asked her. 

“I’ve been trying to get someone to rent out that flat for ages,” Mrs. Hudson answered. “I’m glad to get that key off of my ring, although I’d like an extra one made, just so I can pop in and see you every now and again.” 

“It only seems fair, since you’ll be my landlady,” Winnie said after a moment. 

Mrs. Hudson tapped her on the nose, and then scampered off down the hall towards her kitchen. Winnie chuckled to herself, and then made her way up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. The door was open, still, and she pushed it inwards in time to hear Sherlock muttering to himself about something, and then the sound of a violin playing. 

Winnie walked into the main room and found Sherlock standing before the window, a violin under his chin and a bow moving across the strings, emitting lovely music. Winnie waited patiently for Sherlock to stop playing, which he did after a few moments, lowering the bow long enough to write something on a piece of paper that was sitting on a music stand. 

“Boss?” she said before he could start playing again. He glanced over at her, and then started playing again. “Mrs. Hudson showed me 221C.” 

Sherlock stopped playing and wrote something else down. “Yes, and you’re moving in,” he said as he did so. 

Winnie sighed, and glanced down at the key, which was still in her hand. “The key, right?” she guessed, holding it up. 

“Mmhm,” Sherlock replied vacantly, bringing his bow back up to continue playing. 

“Yep,” Winnie sighed, sliding it away into the pocket on her pants. She then pulled off her coat and tossed it over onto the sofa before walking over to peer at whatever was on the music stand. 

“My God, Sherlock,” she said. “You compose?” 

“When I’m thinking,” he replied. 

“Are you thinking?” she asked him. 

“Yes.” 

“About…?” 

Sherlock used his bow to gesture across the flat and towards his information wall. Winnie glanced over at it, but there was nothing to see. 

“What am I looking at?” she asked him. 

“Nothing!” Sherlock exclaimed. “That’s the problem, Winnie.” He walked past her and jumped onto the sofa, pointing to the blank wall with his bow. “ _ Nothing _ .” 

“So… get something,” Winnie suggested. 

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and jumped down off of the sofa. “Where is John?” 

“I don't know.” 

Sherlock walked across the room and picked up his phone. He then shrugged to himself and dropped it again before returning to his music stand. “Shopping.” 

“Yes, that makes sense,” Winnie said. “You are out of food, have been since yesterday. The two of you would starve if John didn’t understand the basic necessities of life.” She watched as Sherlock began to return his violin its spot beneath his chin.. “Sherlock, I need my pay.” 

“Your what?” 

“My pay,” she repeated. “221C needs some work, and I can’t move in without getting it fixed up. To get it fixed, I need money.” 

Sherlock seemed not to have heard her, as he merely started to play his violin again. Winnie rolled her eyes to herself and sank down onto the sofa to watch and wait. 

About an hour passed, and then John shuffled into the flat, carrying two paper bags in his arms. Winnie raised her hand in greeting, and John gestured for her to come help with his head. She spared one glance in Sherlock’s direction before doing as she was bid, and following John into the kitchen. 

“Has he been composing all morning?” she asked him as John set down the bags on the only clear space on the table and started to pull groceries out of them. 

“Yeah,” John answered. “I think he’s going mad, maybe planning a crime of his own for himself to solve.” 

“Has he done that before?” 

“Not yet.” John held out two jars. “Put those in the fridge, would you?” 

Winnie took them and went over to the fridge. She pulled it open, let out an exclamation of “Jesus!” and almost dropped the jars. She caught them before they could hit the floor, however, and the fridge fell shut again. 

“John?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why is there a head in the fridge?” 

“Some sort of experiment Sherlock is doing, I don’t know,” John replied, putting a canned something in a cupboard. “Ask him.” 

“Sherlock!” Winnie called, raising her voice. 

“What?” he asked, appearing where the kitchen connected to the front room. 

Winnie stalked over to the fridge and pulled it open to reveal the head. “What is this?” 

“It’s a head,” Sherlock answered, frowning. 

Winnie had to take a moment to keep from screaming. “I meant… why do you have it in here?” she asked him, patiently. 

“I’m seeing how long it takes for hair to fall out when kept in a cold environment,” Sherlock replied. 

“Oh, for the love of God.” Winnie shut the fridge. “Why the hell do you need to know that?” 

“I need to know everything.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“God, what?” he demanded. 

“I need my pay.” 

“I don't have your pay!” 

Winnie gaped at him. “Wait… you don't have my pay?” she finally asked. 

“No,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I don't.” 

“Sherlock -” 

“I don't have your pay because I already put it towards getting 221C cleaned up,” he grumbled. 

“Sorry?” Winnie queried, not sure she was hearing him right. 

“I knew that you'd agree to move in, so I went ahead and paid for a renovation crew,” Sherlock said to her. “They start work tomorrow.”

Winnie stared at him for a moment, and then she glanced over at John, who appeared to be ignoring the conversation entirely, probably because he didn't like what he was hearing. Winnie turned back to Sherlock. She stepped towards him, and then hit him on the chest. 

“What was that for?” he asked, stepping backwards. 

“For not outright telling me, you sod!” Winnie answered, hitting him again. “Jesus, you scared me.” 

“Sorry?” Sherlock said, the word sounding like a question. 

“Dammit,” Winnie sighed, gazing up at him. She then grinned and grabbed him up in a hug. Sherlock let out a noise of surprise, but he didn't try to get away. He gazed over her head at John, who was still ignoring them. 

Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock cleared his throat and gave Winnie a small pat on the head. 

She chuckled and pulled away from him. “Thank you, Sherlock,” she said. 

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat again as he straightened his jacket. His mobile began ringing, then, and he pulled it out to answer it. “Holmes.” 

As Sherlock wandered out of the kitchen, the phone to his ear, Winnie looked at John. 

“Are you pissed or what?” she asked him. 

“I am not.” 

“Don't lie,” Winnie said. “You were hoping he wouldn't pay me, and that I would quit.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.”

John exhaled sharply and looked up from his task of separating groceries. “I've decided to just… come to terms with the fact that you're not going away. It isn't all bad.” 

“Oh, really?” Winnie asked, smirking. 

“Sherlock has someone else to complain to when he’s bored.” 

“Ah, but you live with him.” 

John made a face in response, and Winnie laughed. Sherlock then ran into the kitchen, looking annoyed. 

“Mycroft is coming for a visit,” he grumbled. “He has a case he needs my help with.” 

“Oh, good,” Winnie said. “I love when Mycroft comes to visit.” 

Sherlock looked at her, and then sighed. “Sarcasm.”

“Yep.” She frowned. “Sherlock, I can’t stay.” 

“Why not?” he asked, already walking away from the kitchen. Winnie followed him, speaking as she went. 

“My date, remember?” 

Sherlock  _ tsk _ ed. “I'm sure Lestrade will understand.” 

“But -” 

“Would you like me to text him for you?” Sherlock asked, glancing at her. 

Winnie huffed in frustration, but pulled out her mobile all the same.

It didn't take long for Mycroft to show up at the door. It was snowing outside, so he dusted flakes off of his shoulders as he entered the flat, making himself at home immediately. Winnie rolled her eyes to herself, but went to prepare the tea platter. 

As she did so, she listened to the chatter between the three men in the front room, with interest. After bickering with one another for a few moments, Sherlock finally allowed Mycroft to speak about the case he needed Sherlock to solve. 

“A sensitive letter was stolen yesterday out of the Secretary of European Affair’s dispatch box,” Mycroft explained. 

“How sensitive a letter?” John asked. Winnie finished placing some biscuits on a plate and set it down on the tray.

“One that could start a war between England and the sender of the letter’s country,” Mycroft answered. “It is important that this letter is returned to the secretary before anyone else can read it.” 

“If it was stolen, isn't it safe to assume that it's already been read?” Winnie queried, walking into the front room with the tea tray in hand. As she set it down on the table, Mycroft turned his cold gaze to her. Winnie raised an eyebrow. “Just trying to use common sense.”

“Am I able to  _ talk _ to the European Secretary, by chance?” Sherlock inquired from where he sat in his chair, looking bored. “I’d like to learn how the letter disappeared from the man who lost it.”

“The European Secretary is a very busy man,” Mycroft replied. 

“And the letter that has been lost is very important,” Sherlock said back. “Bring him to me.” 

Within an hour, both John and Winnie were standing at attention as Sherlock paced before where the European Secretary, Howard Thompson, was seated on the sofa. 

“Tell me how the letter was taken, and when,” Sherlock said to him. 

“That won't take long,” Thompson sighed. “The letter came to me yesterday afternoon just before I left for home. It was a matter of importance, too important to be left in the safe in my office, so I took it home with me and put it in my dispatch box there. My wife and I had dinner between six and seven, and then she left for the cinema with some friends. I waited up for her, and we retired to bed at eleven thirty.”

“And the box was left unguarded during this time?” Sherlock guessed. 

“Yes,” Thompson replied, glancing down at his watch. 

“Did anyone in your household know about the letter?” Sherlock queried. 

“No one, not even my wife,” Thompson answered. 

Sherlock paused in his pacing, and turned to face the Secretary fully. “Who had access to the safe while you were away from it?”

“Well, no one had  _ access _ to it, but the only person who went into the room at the time was our housemaid.”

“Hm.” Sherlock didn't seem impressed. “Well, I can tell you now that the letter was not taken after you and your wife retired for bed, and that it was taken by someone who knew about it, which begs the question of where the letter came from, and who could have interest in it?” 

Thompson exhaled, and glanced at Mycroft, who was leaning against the wall near the door. Mycroft seemed hesitant, but after a moment, he straightened up and walked over to Sherlock. 

“The letter was pale blue, and sealed with a lion in red wax,” he said to Sherlock. “Take a guess as to whom it came from based on that knowledge.” 

“Right,” Sherlock said, “so a spy, then.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft replied. 

“Sorry, obviously?” Thompson asked, frowning. 

“Winnie, I'll need a list of all the German international spies you know of,” Sherlock said to her. 

“I don't know any…” She trailed off when she saw his expression, as well as Mycroft’s, and cleared her throat. “Right. On its way.” 

She left the front room, and Sherlock turned back to Thompson. “Until I return the letter, I'm afraid it's best to prepare for the worst possible outcome.”

This seemed to catch Thompson’s attention, if nothing else had. He looked up from his watch and blinked at Sherlock. “Why is that?” 

“If whoever took the letter is who I think they are, the letter is already gone, and on its way to a European embassy,” Sherlock responded. Thompson looked terrified by the prospect, and he paled considerably. Winnie returned a moment later with her list, and she handed it to Sherlock. He examined it for a moment, then smiled to himself and passed it to Mycroft. “Right. I will have an update for you by Thursday.” 

Thompson merely grew paler. “Thursday? Mr. Holmes, I don't think I have to remind you how -”

“Imperative it is I find the letter, yes, yes, I know.” Sherlock stepped back, clearly a gesture for Thompson to leave. The secretary rose from where he sat on the sofa and started towards the door. 

He paused next to it, and looked back at them. “Gentlemen,” he said, and then to Winnie, “My lady.” He then exited the flat, the door closing behind him. Mycroft held up the list. 

“One of these?”

“If my assumptions are correct,” Sherlock answered. 

John was staring at Winnie, and she was avoiding his gaze, keeping hers on the ground. He shook his head to himself and looked at Sherlock. 

“Where do we start?” he asked. 

Sherlock plucked the list from Mycroft’s hands and passed it to John. “Start researching,” he said. 

John nodded, and headed off towards where his laptop waited. Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “I'll keep you updated.” 

“I would hope so,” Mycroft responded with a roll of his eyes. “Afternoon.” He left the flat, sending a grim look back at Sherlock as he did so. When he was gone, Sherlock turned to Winnie.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

She shook her head. “Mycroft already knew, and I doubt John would've been kept in the dark for much longer.” 

“Kept in the dark about what?” John asked from where he sat at the table. 

“About Winnie’s past,” Sherlock replied, walking over to where he sat. “What do we have?” 

John gazed back at Winnie for a moment before facing forward again. “Nothing yet.” 

“Boring,” Sherlock stated, stepping back. “Winnie.” 

“What?” 

“Are these all the names you have?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “All that I remember.” 

“That'll have to be enough.” Sherlock took the laptop away from John and starting typing one of the names on the paper. As he did so, Mrs. Hudson opened the flat door. 

“Is the bell not working?” she asked them, stepping out of the way. “Sherlock, you have a visitor.” 

“Mrs. Hudson, we’re very busy,” Sherlock told her.

“Sorry dear, but I’ve already let her up,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

Sherlock set the laptop down in frustration and turned to face the doorway. He paused, however, when he saw the ‘visitor’. 

“Sorry,” she said quietly, stepping into the flat. She had long blonde hair and gentle blue eyes, and was dressed in a white skirt and blouse. One glance at John, and Sherlock knew that she was breathtaking, because John’s eyes were bulging out of his head. 

“It's fine,” Sherlock said to the woman. “How can we help you?” 

“My name is Kylie Thompson,” she said. “I believe you just got finished talking to my husband.” 

As soon as she finished speaking, John’s eyes flew back into his head and his tongue, which was dangerously close to coming out in a pant, retreated back into his mouth. 

“He did come and see us, yes,” Sherlock responded, gesturing for Mrs. Thompson to sit down. She shook her head, holding up a hand. 

“This won’t take long,” she said softly. “He told me about how the letter is missing. He seemed so worried, Mr. Holmes. I thought… I thought I might be better at comforting him, if I knew just how serious the matter was.” 

“Serious enough that I cannot tell you about it,” Sherlock replied. Mrs. Thompson let out a groan and pressed her hand against her forehead. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “You must understand that, Mrs. Thompson. If he has not told you, then I can’t.”

“I understand,” she responded, lowering her hand. Her eyes were bleak now. “Just… answer one question for me, Mr. Holmes. Will my husband’s career suffer because of all this?” 

“If I do not find the letter, then I'm afraid so.” 

Mrs. Thompson inhaled sharply, her eyes darting between the three in the room. After a moment, she closed her eyes and let out a breath. She then opened them and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I must ask you not to speak of my visit to my husband.” 

“I can't make that promise, but I will do my best to oblige,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Thompson nodded, though it was with a haunted look in her eyes. Then she headed for the door, and, with nary a glance back, was gone. 

Sherlock exhaled and looked at John. “Well?” he prompted. 

John started, and glanced at him. “Well, what?” 

“You know more about women than I do.” Sherlock gestured to the door. “What do you make of that?” 

“I… uh…” John cleared his throat and stood. “Pardon me a minute.” He exited the front room, and Sherlock turned to Winnie instead. 

“Excitable, nervous…” Winnie shrugged her shoulders. “She fears for her husband’s career, Sherlock.” 

“Is that all?” he questioned, frowning to himself. Winnie didn't respond, and Sherlock exhaled. “Begin researching your spies, Winnie.” 

She watched in confusion as he started towards the door of the flat. “Where are you going?” 

“To do some research of my own,” he answered honestly, and then he was gone. Winnie knew what he meant, and she turned to face the laptop, deciding to leave Sherlock to his homeless network, and to rely on a different type of net herself.

During her research, while John was gone getting food for the two of them, her mobile buzzed from where it sat next to the laptop. She picked it up and found a message from Greg.

She hated it, but she was relieved. At least she wouldn’t have the image of Greg sitting home alone in her head all night while she did her research. That would have been terribly distracting.

* * *

 

Sherlock was gone all night. John and Winnie decided to stay up and wait for him, but she fell asleep around two in the morning. John was right behind when he fell asleep at three. 

When Sherlock returned at 7, he awoke them both, which was surprising, since the crew who was going to work on Winnie’s flat had already been going strong since six.

“Did you find anything?” he asked them, ignoring the fact that they'd both been asleep until he’d walked through the door. 

“I'm up,” John said, sitting upright. 

Winnie was slower to respond, but she’d actually heard Sherlock’s question. She yawned to herself and shook her head. “Not really. Lucas Edwards lives closest to the Thompson home.” 

Sherlock paused in the removal of his coat, and looked over at her. “I know that,” he said, starting to pull his coat back on. 

“You do?” Winnie asked as John started across the room, shuffling a bit. He picked up the paper that Sherlock had brought in and unfolded it. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, walking over to where she sat. “We’ll go pay him a visit. Godolphin, correct?” 

John frowned. He lowered the newspaper, which cause both Winnie and Sherlock to turn to him. 

“What is it?” Winnie queried when she saw John’s face.

“You said Lucas Edwards, right?” he asked. She nodded, and John held out the paper. “He was killed two nights ago. His body was found yesterday evening.” 

“What?” Winnie asked in disbelief. Sherlock strode across the room and took the paper from John, reading the article for himself. As he did so, his eyebrows drew together, and he frowned to himself. 

“Quite a coincidence,” John commented, going into the kitchen to brew some coffee. 

“It really is,” Winnie agreed, still not quite believing it. 

“Coincidence,” Sherlock snorted, folding the paper over and tossing it down on the table. “I doubt it.” 

“Really?” Winnie queried.

“He is one of the spies that we’d decided could be the perpetrator of our drama with the European Secretary, and now here he is, found murdered during the time describe as the period in which the letter was stolen?” The consulting detective shook his head. “The odds of it being a coincidence are extremely low.”

“So you think the two are connected?” Winnie asked him. 

“Undoubtedly, and it's up to us to find that connection.” Sherlock gestured to the paper. “New Scotland Yard arrested Edwards’s houseboy for the murder. I imagine they won't be contacting us for any help in the matter, so we must go to the scene of the crime on our own.” 

As he finished speaking, however, his mobile rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Holmes.” He listened for a moment, frowning to himself all the while. “We’ll be there shortly.” He hung up the mobile and slid it away, and then started for the door of the flat. 

“Sherlock?” Winnie asked him, standing up and reaching for her coat all the same. 

“Lestrade’s found something of interest. He needs my assistance after all.” 

Winnie rolled her eyes to herself as he disappeared, and then she called to John and followed her employer. Once John had joined them outside, coffee in hand, all three ducked into a cab, and Sherlock asked them to be deposited at Edwards’s address. 

When they'd reached the house, Lestrade met them outside, and Winnie smiled to herself when she saw his expression. 

“Definitely a hold on our date, then,” she said to him, climbing out of the cab first.

“Unfortunately, but we nabbed the guy this time, so maybe it won't take as much paperwork, and I'll actually be able to take you out tomorrow,” Greg responded, returning her grin despite how tired he looked. He then turned his attention to Sherlock. “Seen the paper?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Are you sure you caught the right man?” 

“Confessed and everything,” Greg replied. “Signed, sealed and delivered, to prison.” 

“So why have you called me here?” Sherlock inquired. 

Greg gestured with his head for them to follow him inside, which they did. Winnie found the house’s interior to be similar to its exterior; dull, drab, and prim. The front room, where the article had stated the murder had taken place, was furnished with a white rug and white everything else. A nice place, for a spy. 

Sherlock examined the room, including the bloodstain on the rug, and then he turned to Greg, not finding anything of interest. 

“What is it, then?” he asked. 

“Well, you know that we don't really move things during investigations like this, but because of how quickly the case was closed, we were able to tidy up a bit.” Greg gestured to the rug. “We had cause to move it, and we found -”

“You found…?”

“You see the stain on it?” Lestrade asked him. “Must have soaked through it to the floor, right?”

“Yes, of course.” 

“Well, it didn't.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It must have.” 

Greg bent down and lifted the corner of the rug to prove his statement. Indeed, the floor was spotless beneath the red mark on the underside of the white carpet. 

Sherlock frowned, and Lestrade chuckled to himself at his expression. 

“Now, let me show you this,” he said, walking over to the other end of the carpet. He raised it up, and Sherlock glanced down to see what he’d guessed he would. A stain of blood. “Strange, isn't it?” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock responded, losing the confused expression on his face. “The carpet was facing that direction when the murder was committed, and then it was turned. Obvious.” 

“Sure, that part is, but can you tell me who shifted the carpet and why?” Lestrade inquired, standing up and returning back to Winnie’s side. 

Sherlock let out a breath, and glanced around the room. He then turned back to Winnie and Greg. 

“Winifred?” 

“Yes, boss?” 

“Take Detective Inspector Lestrade and ask the other officers present if they saw anything strange occur here within the last twelve hours,” Sherlock said.

Winnie frowned. “He can do that himself.” 

“Yes, but I want you there to hear any of the news,” Sherlock said, giving her a look. 

John sighed to himself. “I'll go,” he said, glancing between Winnie and Sherlock, before gesturing to the home’s front door. “Greg?” 

“Uh… all right,” Lestrade said, frowning a bit. He followed John outside, and as soon as the door closed, Sherlock was down on his hands and knees, moving the carpet out of the way. He dug at the squares of wood beneath it with his fingernails, and Winnie watched in surprise as one of the squares tilted under Sherlock’s pressing. It raised like the lid of a box, and Sherlock reached into the dark cavity in the floor that it revealed. 

After a moment, Sherlock cursed and removed his hand again, angry. He then closed the lid of the hole and slid the carpet back into the same position it had been and stood up, just as John and Lestrade returned into the house, an officer behind them. They found Winie gazing at Sherlock, who was leaning against the mantle of the fireplace in the room, looking bored. 

“No doubt you've figured it all out,” Greg commented, and then he gestured to the officer. “Tell him what you told me all the same, Collins.” 

The officer, Collins, looked a bit peaked. “I meant no harm, of course, but when a lovely lady comes to the door of the house you're keeping watch on in the middle of the night, curiosity strikes. Soon as I opened the door, she said that she must have been mistaken. I told her than she had to have been, since a murder had occurred here the day prior. She seemed stunned, but interested, and asked if she could see the place it happened. I saw no harm in it, and I let her into the house. Soon as she saw the blood on the carpet, she dropped to the floor in a dead faint. I went to get her some water, but soon as I got back, she was gone, ashamed, most like, and afraid to face me.” 

“And the carpet?” Sherlock insisted, looking a bit interested. “Was it moved?”

Collins shook his head. “Just ruffled a bit, in the corner she fell.”

Lestrade looked disappointed with his officer. No doubt he’d be getting some scolding later on. For the time being, however, the DI turned to Sherlock. “Sorry for calling you down here, but I thought the second stain might interest you a bit.” 

“Yes, interesting indeed.” Sherlock was still studying Collins. “The woman was only here once?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And pretty?” 

“More than that,” Collins said, smiling a bit. “She was very coaxing, too, to let me let her in. I'm usually not so lenient.” 

“What time was it when she came?” Sherlock asked.

“About dusk, sir. Everyone else had gone back to the station for the night. Detective Inspector Lestrade was busy interrogating the accused, and he’d left me in charge.”

“Very good,” Sherlock said. “Come along, John, Winnie. I believe we have more urgent matters to attend to elsewhere.” John and Sherlock exited the house, and Winnie blew Greg a kiss before following after them. He smiled to himself, blissful, until he remembered Officer Collins was still in the room.

“You're lucky this investigation has already been wrapped up, or you'd be in big trouble,” he said to him.

Outside the house, Sherlock was chuckling to himself as the three companions walked away down the street. 

“What are you so giddy about?” John asked him. 

“Well, you'll be relieved to hear that everything has just come to a close,” Sherlock replied. “There will be no war, and Thompson’s career will not suffer.” 

“You've solved it, then?” John asked, astonished. 

“Not exactly, but I do think I have enough information to bring this to a head.” Sherlock hailed a taxi, and the three of them piled into it, their destination that of the home of European Secretary Howard Thompson.

Once they had arrived, however, both Winnie and John were surprised when Sherlock asked to see Kylie Thompson, instead. When they were shown to the tea room, Mrs. Thompson appeared a few minutes later.

“Mr. Holmes!” she explained, her face pink. “How dare you come to my home after I asked you, begged you, not to inform my husband of our meeting?” 

Sherlock merely smiled and walked towards where she stood. “I apologize, ma’am, but I had no choice. I have been asked to recover the letter, and so I must ask that you give it to me.” 

John and Winnie exchanged a surprised look while Mrs. Thompson’s face darkened another shade. 

“You insult me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. 

“Oh, please, Mrs. Thompson, there is no use in this. Give me the letter.” 

She snorted in indignation, and started towards the door of the tea room. “Our housemaid will show you out,” she stated, beginning to turn the knob. 

“Do not leave, Mrs. Thompson,” Sherlock sighed. “If you do, all efforts I have put into this to avoid it becoming a scandal will have been wasted. If you hand over the letter, I can make sure everything remains as it has been.” 

She gazed at him, blue eyes narrowed as she took him in, no doubt looking into his soul. At last, however, her hand left the doorknob, and she returned to the seat that she had been sitting in.

“Explain to me why you believe I have the letter,” she said coldly. 

“It will take barely a minute,” Sherlock responded. “I know that you visited Lucas Edwards two nights ago, and gave him the letter. When you learned of his murder, no doubt from a spy of your own, you hurried back to the house and retrieved the document from its hiding space in the floor.” 

Mrs. Thompson’s face had gone ashen, and she spluttered a bit before finally coming up with words. 

“You are insane, Mr. Holmes. Absolutely crazy.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Thompson…” Sherlock pulled his hand out of his pocket and showed off a photo he had on his mobile. It was that of Lucas Edwards’s home. Standing on the front step was a young woman, who appeared to be leaving in a hurry. Unmistakably, however, it was Mrs. Thompson. 

The woman inhaled, and her head fell backwards against her chair. 

“So you see, Mrs. Thompson, that I know you have the letter, and I promise you that I offer you no harm. I merely want to be done with this business, so my brother will stop bothering me about getting this crime solved. Hand over the letter, and we can avoid any and all drama.” 

Mrs. Thompson had only taken a minute to recover, and Winnie noticed a stony expression creep onto her face as she glared at Sherlock. “I tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I have done nothing of what you accuse me.” 

Sherlock sighed, and stood up. “Then I must apologize, Mrs. Thompson. I tried my best for you.” He opened the door of the tea room, and within a moment, the housemaid appeared. “Is Mr. Howard Thompson at home?” 

“He will be, quarter to one,” the housemaid replied. 

Sherlock glanced at the time on his mobile. “Only a quarter of an hour away from now,” he stated. He slid the phone away. “I'll wait for him.” 

The housemaid didn't seem to care much, and she retreated from the room. No sooner had Sherlock closed the door than was Mrs. Thompson on the floor at his feet, he face wet with tears. 

“I beg of you, Mr. Holmes, do not tell him,” she cried. “I love him, and I do not want to ruin his life with this news!” 

Sherlock helped her to her feet. “I'm glad you have come to your senses,” he said to her. “Where is the letter?” 

Mrs. Thompson hurried to one of the bookshelves and withdrew a book from it. She opened it, revealing that it was a box of its own, and pulled out a long blue envelope. She quickly replaced the book and carried the letter to Sherlock, handing it over with no complaints.

“Help me, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered. 

“Is the dispatch-box still here?” he asked her. 

“Of course.” 

“Fetch it, then, and be quick.”

Mrs. Thompson scampered out of the tea room, and Winnie shook her head at Sherlock. “Where did you get that picture?” she asked him. 

“My homeless network, of course,” Sherlock replied. “I didn't know how useful it was until we read about Edwards’s murder this morning.” 

Another minute passed before Mrs. Thompson returned with a black lockbox. She set it down on a table, and Sherlock waited patiently. She let out a sigh, and, from her bosom, withdrew a small silver key, which she used to open the box. It was full of other papers. Sherlock quickly buried the blue envelope within the midst of them, and closed the box. Mrs. Thompson locked it again, and returned to its original space in the bedroom. 

“We have ten minutes to spare,” Sherlock said when Mrs. Thompson had returned. “Because I am helping you, Mrs. Thompson, I would ask you to share why you took the letter at all.” 

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” she said, sitting down heavily in her chair. “I will tell you everything.” The three visitors listened as Mrs. Thompson explained that Edwards had a letter of her own, one she had written before her marriage to Howard Thompson, that spoke of how she did not want to be married to him. She regretted writing it, deeply, for she had not meant a word of it, and implored that Edwards return it to her. He said that he would, if she brought him the letter that had gone missing from Thompson’s dispatch box. When she went to the trade, Edwards had seemed jumpy, and he’d immediately placed Thompson’s letter into hiding in the spot under the carpet. 

“The next morning, I realized what a terrible mistake I had made, when I saw how upset Howard was over the loss of the letter. I knew it had to get it back, however necessary.” Mrs. Thompson exhaled, her face steeling. “It's no loss on anyone’s part that Edwards was murdered, I can tell you that.” 

Just then, there was the sound of footsteps outside the room, and the European Secretary himself came through the door, his eyes bright. 

“I hope that, Mr. Holmes, because you are here, you have good news for me,” he said. 

“I believe I may have some,” Sherlock replied. 

“Thank God,” Thompson said in relief. He glanced at his wife. “As this is a matter of politics, love, I ask you to wait for us in the dining room.” 

Mrs. Thompson glanced once at Sherlock before she nodded and exited the room. When she was gone, Mr. Thompson turned to Sherlock.

“Well?” 

“I've looked at everything that I could, and I've decided that the letter couldn't have possibly left the house. If it had, it's contents would be public by now,” Sherlock stated. 

Thompson frowned. “Why would someone remove it from the box, if only to keep it in the house?”

“I don't think it ever left the box,” Sherlock said simply. 

“You must be joking!” 

“I am not,” Sherlock responded. “It's simple. You must have overlooked it in your worry.” 

Mr. Thompson looked annoyed, but all the same, he asked that the dispatch box be brought downstairs to the tea room. It was, and Thompson glared at Sherlock, and then at John and Winnie. 

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that this is a waste of time,” he said. 

“Open the box,” Sherlock urged. 

“Fine, fine,” Thompson said, doing so. He pulled out one letter at a time, and then his jaw fell open. From the box he withdrew the blue letter, and he looked at Sherlock. “How in the name of God…?” 

“I told you, you must have overlooked it,” Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders. 

“My God,” Thompson said, his voice low. “I can't believe it. How did…” He shook his head. “Never mind, I don't care. Just… what a relief, Mr. Holmes! I must tell my wife that all is well.” He hurried from the room, calling Mrs. Thompson’s name, and then he raced back in, gently placing the letter back into his box and locking it up again. He then turned to Sherlock. “How did you know it was still in the box?” 

“I knew it couldn't be anywhere else,” Sherlock answered, smiling. He rose from his chair. “Give your wife our best, Mr. Thompson.” He then gestured for John and Winnie to follow him, which they did. 

Once they were out of the house, John shook his head to himself and let or a quiet laugh. Sherlock looked at him, and the doctor exhaled. 

“I will never understand you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said. 

Sherlock merely winked at Winnie as John said this. “No one ever will,” he replied, “if there’s anything good left in the world.” 

Winnie smiled to herself, and the three of them climbed into a cab to head to lunch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It's was fun to go back and read this. I took one of Conan Doyle's stories and changed it a bit to make it fit into modern context. Lucas Edwards's actual name is Edward Lucas, I believe, in the original tale.   
> 2\. Greg and Winnie are definitely on my list of favorite ships that I've written about.   
> 3\. Greg is definitely on my list of favorite characters I've been able to write for.   
> 4\. I'm sort of disappointed in the way I wrote Sherlock this time around. I made him more Conan Doyley and less Moffat-Gatissy.


	7. A Date, Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg and Winnie finally get to go on their date.

“Oh, rubbish,” Winnie grumbled to herself as she scanned the emails in Sherlock’s account. He’d given her the task of finding a client that “wouldn't be boring”, and so far, she hasn't seen any cases that would live up to Sherlock’s impossible “not boring” expectations.

“Haven't found anything, then?” John guessed, wandering into the room from the kitchen, adjusting his shirt collar. 

“Nope,” Winnie replied halfheartedly. “I don't know what he wants. All of these sound sort of interesting, but Sherlock would most likely be able to solve them just from reading the email.” She sighed to herself and rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the table as she studied John, who was fussing over his hair in the mirror above the fireplace. “Why are you getting fancied up?” 

“I have a date,” John responded, finishing with his hair. He pulled back his jacket sleeve and studied his watch. “I have to get to her place soon, actually. Just wanted to give you some final encouragement before heading out.” 

“Well, God bless you, John Watson,” Winnie said with mock breathiness. “Heaven knows what I'd do without your encouragement.” 

John smiled a bit. “I'm sorry you haven't had time to reschedule your date with Greg,” he said. 

Winnie’s gaze fell, and she glanced at her mobile, which was sitting next to her on the table. “So am I. Have a good time on  _ your _ date for me, okay?”

“Got it,” John said. She listened to him slide into his outer jacket. “I'll see you later, Winnie.”

She grunted in response, and John chuckled as he stepped out of the flat, door closing behind him. Winnie stared at nothing for a moment, focusing on her breathing. She finally shook her head to herself and reached for her mobile. If she wanted a date, apparently she would have to make the first move. 

She set her mobile back down and returned her gaze to the emails on the laptop screen before her, although she wasn't really reading them anymore. She was pretty sure the last one she’d read through had to do with a snack cake gone missing, and that was about all the stupidity she could take in one day.

The thought crossed her mind, and she fell back against the chair she was sitting in, blinking at the laptop screen. Had she really just thought that? 

“Oh, God,” she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I'm turning into Sherlock. I am  _ literally _ becoming Sherlock Holmes.” 

“God, I hope not,” a voice said from behind her. Winnie turned in her chair and found Greg Lestrade leaning against the doorway of 221B, arms crossed. He grinned at her. “One of those is enough for me.” 

Winnie stood up. “I just texted you,” she said. “Did you… fly here?” 

“No, I was on my way over when I got the text, actually,” Greg replied. “I was coming to see Sherlock, but you're definitely a better sight.” 

Winnie’s cheeks grew hot, and she grinned, glancing downwards to hide her embarrassment. “I'm glad you think so.” She allowed herself to look at him again. “Why'd you need Sherlock?” 

Greg shrugged. “I wanted his opinion on a case, but that isn't my first priority anymore.” Greg stepped into the flat fully and walked over to where she stood. Winnie gazed up at him, smiling a bit. “My first priority is to ask you if you can come with me, right now, and we can get the messy first date out of the way once and for all.” 

Winnie looked up into his eyes, and seeing how genuine he was in them only made her sad. She sighed and shook her head. 

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I wish I could, but Sherlock asked me to find him a case, and I should really do that before he gets back from wherever it was that he went.” 

Greg seemed crestfallen, but it only lasted for a moment. His eyes brightened again, and he grinned. “I have a case for him. We can tell him about it, and then you can come with me.” 

“But he’s not here,” Winnie said, frowning. 

“So call him. Or text. Whichever.” Greg shrugged. “I'm off duty, so I can wait.” 

Winnie glanced over at her mobile, and then back at him. After a moment, she smirked. 

“You know what? No, I'm not going to call or text him, because he owes me a day off, anyhow.” Winnie reached over and neatly closed Sherlock’s laptop before turning to face Greg. “What are we going to do?” she asked him. 

“Well…” He glanced down at his watch. “It's about dinner time. Do you want to get something to eat?” 

Winnie nodded. “Sounds perfect.” She reached for her mobile and slid it into her jeans’s pocket. “Lead the way.” 

Greg did as she asked, and Winnie left word with Mrs. Hudson that she was going out. The two then exited 221B and climbed into Greg’s car, which was parked by the curb. 

“I don't have any real plans, unfortunately,” the detective inspector admitted as he drove away from Baker St. “We’ll just have to take whatever we can get.” 

Winnie hummed. “I love spontaneity.” 

Greg laughed. “That's a good quality to have on a date like this.” 

Winnie gazed out the window of his car, ignoring her mobile as it vibrated in her pocket. 

It didn't take long to find a restaurant that didn't have a line, although it was a Chinese place. Greg apologized, and Winnie shook her head at him. 

“We’re hungry,” she said. “To be honest, I would've eaten at Speedy’s if we absolutely had too.”

Greg led her to a vacant table in the corner of the small restaurant, pulling out her chair for her. “Have you actually eaten there? The coffee is quite good, but that's the only thing I've tried,” he said, taking his own seat across from her. 

“No, I haven't,” Winnie said, disappointedly. “I really should sometime soon, though.” She glanced around the room. It was empty, aside from a student with a laptop at a table across from them. “Huh. Not the best service.” 

Almost as though she’d summoned him, a waiter darted over to their table with menus, asking for their drink order. 

When they had gotten drinks, and ordered their food, the waiter left them alone, and Greg exhaled. 

“Sorry again,” he said to Winnie, who gave him a curious look as she took a drink of her water. “I wish we could have planned this out.” 

“Pish,” Winnie said dismissively, setting her cup down. “I'm glad we’re doing this.” Her mobile buzzed against her leg. She adjusted in response, and then pulled it out. 

Two messages, both from Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, right?” Greg guessed, seeing her expression. 

Winnie turned off the vibration so that she wouldn't be bothered by the texts or possible phone calls. Sliding it back into her pocket, she smiled at Greg. 

“Let's not talk about Sherlock tonight, yeah?” she suggested.

Greg had no problem with that. “Sure. Tell me about you instead,” he said, resting his arms on the table. 

Winnie went on to tell him about her family, and about Mariah. She didn't tell him why she'd been living with Mariah however, nor did she tell him why she didn't have a job before finding Sherlock’s ad in the paper. Greg didn't ask her about either of these topics. Instead, he talked about himself, about his family and his own experience with having a hard time finding work. It was a bit different for him. 

“I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do,” he told her. “I'd never found an interest in anything substantial, and so I worried for a long time that I would never have a job.” 

“So why did you join Scotland Yard?” Winnie asked him. 

A change of expression went over Greg’s face. He glanced down at the table, reaching over to fiddle with his glass. 

“It's not a very pleasant story,” he began after a moment. 

“You don't have to tell me,” Winnie began quickly. “I don't want to impose.” 

Greg looked up, grateful. Thankfully, their meals arrived then, distracting them both from the topic. As dinner went on, they talked more, asking one another questions about their favorite things, and sharing stories with one another.

By the time they'd left the restaurant, it was dark, and nearing half eight.

“God,” Greg said, seeing the time on his watch. “No wonder they were trying to get us to leave.” Winnie chuckled, and he looked at her. “Want me to take you home?” 

Winnie inhaled, breathing in the cool night air. After considering it for a moment, she shook her head in response to his question, scooting a bit closer to him to share his warmth. 

“Not just yet.” 

“All right,” Greg said, fighting an urge to put his arm around her. “We can go see a show, or…”

“Maybe just take a walk?” Winnie suggested, glancing up at him.

Greg smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Walks are always nice. And I have the perfect place, too.” 

They got into his car, and Greg drove them to the Thames. He opened Winnie’s door for her once he was parked, and together they walked down to the beach. The lights of London reflected on the river’s surface, and Winnie let out a happy noise as she slid her arm into the crook of Greg’s elbow.

“It's lovely,” she said to him. 

“Isn't it?” 

They walked down the sand together, Winnie closest to the water’s edge. She kept her attention on it, watching the surface ripple. It looked so peaceful. 

There was a change in Greg’s demeanor after they had been walking for a few minutes. Winnie could feel it in the way he shifted next to her, and when she turned her eyes to him for the first time since they'd reached the river, she saw the odd expression on his face. 

“Greg?” she asked, stopping. She pulled him to a stop with her, and he studied the sand for a moment before speaking. 

“I'm the youngest out of my siblings,” he started. “The two of them had already gone off to university by the time I was in secondary school. I was left alone a lot, too, because my parents liked to travel.” Winnie nodded when he stopped, as though waiting for a signal to continue. 

“When I was in my twelfth year of school, I… I came home one day, expecting to spend yet another weekend alone in the house, because my parents were supposed to be in Scotland.” He closed his eyes and inhaled once. “I guess I  _ did  _ spend the weekend alone, just not in the way I thought I would.” 

“What happened?” Winnie asked softly, although a strange feeling in her chest had sort of already given it away. 

Greg’s eyes opened. “My parents had been killed by a home invader while I was at school,” he said quietly. “I found them, and I called Scotland Yard, and they told me it had been a murder suicide. I spent the next three months trying to prove that wasn't true, and when I did, one of the investigators with the Yard suggested that I was better than all of the cops already working combined.” He let out a single laugh and met Winnie’s gaze. “I told you it wasn't a pleasant story.” 

In response, Winnie wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. 

“It happened a long time ago,” he said. “Twenty years later, and I’m a detective inspector with my own division.” Winnie pulled away from him, and he offered her a small grin. “Finding out the truth was closure for me. Finding a career for myself was just… something that happened because of it.” 

Winnie leaned up and pressed her lips against his. Greg seemed taken aback by the kiss, but his surprise didn't last for long. Winnie let him kiss her back for a moment, and then she withdrew, meeting his gaze.

“Sorry,” she apologized, her voice low. 

“Before we do that again, I should tell you that -” 

“You were already married once?” Winnie guessed. Greg lifted an eyebrow, and she chuckled. “It's not exactly hard to guess.” 

He laughed, too, and cleared his throat. “Well, guess I don't need to keep worrying about that, then, do I?” he asked her. 

“No, you're okay,” Winnie said, grinning. She kissed him again, more deeply this time. Greg’s arms went around her waist, and her hands to the back of his neck. 

It was just a romantic scene, the two of them kissing on the beach of the Thames, the wind making Winnie’s hair whip around them. Sherlock gazed at them from where he stood on the dock for a moment, and then he withdrew his mobile. After snapping a picture of the two, he watched them for another moment, and then he turned away from the beach and returned to the cab he had waiting. 

As Sherlock climbed into his taxi, Winnie pulled out of the kiss. She giggled first, and then Greg chuckled, too, and rested his forehead against hers. 

“It's been awhile since I've dated, but… uh, usually that kind of kiss is saved for the fourth or fifth date, right?” he queried. Winnie merely giggled again. 

“I don't know,” she admitted. “Dating hasn't been my first priority in a long time, either.” 

Greg glanced around for a moment, and then he exhaled. “I bet anyone who saw that was quick to get a picture,” he said. 

“No, it's too dark,” Winnie replied. They shared another laugh, and then Greg slid his arm around her shoulders. 

“Come on, then,” he said. “As it gets darker, it gets colder.” 

They headed back towards where they had left his car, and then Greg drove her back to 221B, where they parted with one another on the walk outside, with promises to make real plans sometime soon. Winnie watched Greg climb back into his car and drive away, and then she sighed happily and headed into the flat building. 

As she reached the top of the stairs, she knew that something was off. Preparing herself, she opened the door and stepped into the flat. 

Sherlock was standing next to the window, his arms crossed. 

Winnie exhaled. “Sherlock -” 

“You didn't feel it necessary to tell me you were leaving?” he asked, cutting her off. 

“You owed me a night…” 

“One that wasn't spontaneously taken.”

“Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” Winnie said, “but it's not like you didn't have any notion as to where I could've been, right?” 

“Of course not,” Sherlock responded with a roll of his eyes. “I knew exactly where you were.” 

“So give me a bloody break,” Winnie exclaimed. She walked away from him and towards the bathroom, ducking inside it and locking the door behind her. She leaned back against the door and inhaled sharply to calm down. 

She had no right to be angry with Sherlock. He was her employer, and she needed to ask him if it was okay to take a night off before she just went and did it. In any other job, she would've been fired on the spot for doing such a thing. 

Sherlock had no right to be angry with her, either. Time and again, she had blown off a date with Greg because Sherlock had asked her to do something or another. It wasn't fair of him to keep doing that to her, not matter how important a task he wanted her to do was. 

Winnie met her own gaze in the mirror above the sink. Whatever bliss she had felt prior to speaking with Sherlock was gone, and she only saw full annoyance in her eyes. So much for ending the night on a high note with that kiss. 

Oh, but that kiss… 

Sherlock sank down into his chair, buzzing with frustration. He relaxed, forcing his eyes to close and for himself to calm down. It didn't matter, it was over. He didn't need to care about it, because it wasn't as though he hadn't done nothing that day because of Winnie leaving. He’d had to track the two of them down to the Thames, and that had been a bit of a task. 

Sherlock reached for his mobile, which sat on the edge of the table, and unlocked it. He went to his pictures and found the one that he had taken of Winnie and Lestrade on the beach. He studied the image for a moment, frowning to himself. It was disgusting, how picture perfect the moment had been. Those aren't supposed to exist, nor is there supposed to be someone around to capture them when they do happen. 

Sherlock did not want to be the photographer. 

He put his mobile back down and rubbed at his eyes for a moment. 

“John!” he finally shouted. There was no response, and Sherlock let out a huff and lowered his hands. “John!”

“He isn't here,” Winnie grumbled as she reappeared from the bathroom. 

Sherlock didn't look at her. “Where is he, then?” 

“On a date.” 

“For the love of God!” Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from his chair to pace across the front room. “What is it with you two people and your “dates”? Why must you go on one every single bloody evening?”

“Okay, you need to calm down,” Winnie told him sternly, crossing her arms. “It's not every night, and it's what  _ normal _ people do, Sherlock. John and I would at least like to  _ pretend _ we can lead normal lives.” She studied her employer as he continued to pace. “Is that too much to ask?” 

“Occasionally, yes,” Sherlock answered.

“If you're lonely or whatever, maybe you should find a date or two of your own to keep you busy while John and I gone,” Winnie suggested after watching him for a moment longer. Sherlock merely scoffed in response, and Winnie threw her hands up into the air. “All right, fine. I'm going to go take a shower, and then I am going to bed.” She lowered her arms and looked at him. “Are you actually going to sleep tonight, or should I just take your room again?” 

“Take it,” Sherlock muttered, standing and heading for the door. “I'm going out.” 

“Again?” Winnie asked.

“Yes.” He slid into his coat and was gone. Winnie let out a sigh and glanced around the front room for a moment before retreating towards the bathroom. 

Outside, on the sidewalk, Sherlock was simply standing, not having any desire to go anywhere. He’d just needed to get out of the flat for a second and collect his thoughts. 

He inhaled the cool night air, his eyes closing as he did so. The chill made his lungs burn, but it wasn't a bad burn. He stood like that for a moment, eyes closed and his hands in his pockets, just holding the cold air inside. 

Finally, he breathed outwards, and two white clouds emerged from his nostrils as his eyes opened again and fixed on a cab that had just pulled up to the curb. 

After a moment, John climbed out and turned to face 221. He stopped short when he found Sherlock standing only a few paces away. 

“What're you doing out here?” John asked him, walking over to him instead of going inside. 

“I needed some air,” Sherlock replied, eyes closing again. 

John watched him inhale and exhale, and then he nodded, frowning. “All right. Just don't freeze to death out here.” He headed for the door, and Sherlock’s eyes opened, following his movement. 

“John,” he began before his friend could go inside.

“Yeah?” John asked, glancing over at him. 

Sherlock stared at him a moment, and then faced forward again. “Never mind.” 

John frowned again, but shook his head to himself and entered 221. He stamped snow off of his shoes and then headed up the stairs to 221B. Finding the door unlocked, he entered the flat. He could hear the shower running, and he deposited his coat on the rack before sinking down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. 

After a few minutes, the shower shut off. A few Marie minutes passed, and he heard the door open. Winnie appeared, then, braiding her hair as she walked. She let out a slight gasp of surprise when she saw John, and then released a shaky laugh.

“You scared me,” she said, returning her attention to her braid. 

“Sorry,” John apologized. He glanced towards the window. “Uh… do you know why Sherlock is standing outside in the snow?” 

Winnie frowned, and walked across the room to the window and looked outside. She grunted to herself when she spotted Sherlock, who hadn't moved since John had spoken with him, and then she stepped away from the window. 

“He's not happy with me at the moment,” she admitted to John. “I abandoned the task of finding him a case in order to go out with Greg.” 

John seemed both surprised and impressed by this. “You finally got to go out. That's great. Shame Sherlock doesn't feel the same.” 

“I didn't expect him to,” Winnie said. She sat down next to John on the sofa. “I figured he owed me a night off, and he wasn't home to take on a case, anyhow. I thought it'd be all right to be… spontaneous.” 

“Hmm.” John smiled a bit. “Not when you're working with Sherlock Holmes.” 

“So I've learned,” Winnie sighed. She reached into the pocket on her dressing gown and pulled out her mobile. Ignoring the eight texts Sherlock had sent her during the date, she moved on to the one from Greg. 

Winnie let out a laugh. John glanced over at her, and she shook her head. 

“I don't know whether or not he's joking,” she said, passing her mobile to John. He took it and read over the message. 

“Well,” he started, “I've known Greg for several years now, but… can't say we’re close, so I honestly don't know either.” He handed the mobile back to her, and Winnie exhaled, staring down at the screen. 

“If you sent a text like this, would you be looking for a joking response?” she asked John. 

“When I send texts like that, it's because the date was… well, terrible, to put it lightly,” John said, “and the woman is usually quick to ignore the text entirely, which is response enough for me.” 

“Right.” Winnie didn't think the date had been terrible. Maybe Greg was teasing. 

She decided to keep on with their routine, and reply with a teasing response of her own. It paid off. 

Winnie snickered, actually snickered, and John snatched the mobile from her hands. He read the screen, and then chuckled.

“I didn't know Greg could be so smooth,” he said. Winnie regained her composure, and looked at him. John had started typing out a message. 

“Hey!” Winnie grabbed for the mobile, but John turned so that it was out of her reach and quickly sent the message. Only then did he allow Winnie to take the mobile back, but only because he was laughing so hard. 

“John, this isn't even funny!” Winnie exclaimed. 

“I know,” he said through his chortles, “but I just want to see his response.” 

Winnie glared at him for a moment longer, and then looked down at her mobile. “Wow,” she said, looking at Greg’s reply. 

“Let me see.” John forgot all about laughing and reached for the mobile. Winnie gave him a look, and he stopped trying to take it. Winnie showed it to him instead. 

“Why is he so good?” John asked, glancing up from the screen. 

“I don't know, and I also don't know how to respond to that,” Winnie said, letting her mobile fall into her lap. She learned her head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. “Oh my God.” 

“What?” John queried, frowning. 

“You haven't known me long, John, but have I ever been left speechless? By you or Sherlock, even?” 

John thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I don't think so.” 

“Right,” Winnie said, glancing down at her mobile. “I  _ don't  _ get left speechless.” She shook her head. “Greg’s done it, though.” She frowned and picked up the phone, and stared at it for a solid two minutes without speaking. 

“Uh… Winnie?” John started. She glanced at him, and he gestured to the mobile. “Are you going to respond?” 

“I don’t know how.” 

John sighed, and took the mobile. He gazed down at the screen for a moment, and then he typed out a reply. Before sending it, he showed it to her. Winnie read it, and then nodded. 

John sent the message, and handed the mobile back before standing. “I’m going to wash up, and then I think I’ll head to bed,” he said to her. “Don’t let Sherlock stand outside all night, ‘kay?” 

“Fine,” Winnie answered, gazing down at her mobile. John studied her for a moment longer, and then he turned and headed for the bathroom. 

Winnie sent an affirmative, confirming a follow-up date for the coming Saturday. She then stood up, ready 

to go downstairs and fetch Sherlock, but he came through the flat door before she could. Snow speckled his coat, and drifted off of it as he pulled it off and hung it up on the rack. 

“I thought you’d be in bed,” he said to her. 

“John and I were talking,” she replied. Sherlock glanced over at her, and she sighed. “I was texting Greg.” 

“Mm.” 

“He said he’s going to call about a case tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

Winnie cleared her throat. “Right.” They stared at one another for a moment longer, and then she shook her head. “Off to bed, then. Are you sure you don’t mind?” 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied. 

Winnie gazed at him for another moment, and then she let out a breath and walked away from him, towards the kitchen. 

“Winifred.” She stopped, and turned around to face Sherlock. He sighed outwards and stepped towards her, pulling out his mobile as he did so. She watched as he tapped the screen a few times, and then he held up the phone and showed it to her. 

Winnie blinked in surprise at the photo he was showing her. She snatched the mobile from him and stared down at the picture. 

“Where in the hell -?” 

“I followed you,” Sherlock admitted, “and I saw that happen. I don’t know why I took a picture of it.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can use it for your wedding.”

“Wedding? Sherlock Holmes!” 

“What? I thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “It’s… romantic, or something, isn’t it?” 

Winnie sighed, and looked up at him. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this… but thank you,” she said quietly. “Really. I’m glad you caught this, even though you did it in such a weird, and slightly stalkerish way.” 

Sherlock smiled, and took his mobile from her. “I'll send this to you, then?” he suggested, looking down at the photo. 

“Please,” Winnie replied. She started to walk away again, but hesitated, and turned around to face him once more. “Wedding?” 

Sherlock glanced at her, an eyebrow lifted, and Winnie let out a breath. 

“Right,” she said. “Never mind.” She grinned. “Good night, Sherlock.” 

“Sleep well,” he replied, watching as she disappeared around the corner. When she was gone, Sherlock glanced down at his mobile, and sent the picture to both Winnie and Lestrade. It wasn't fair for only half the party to have it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I also like the development in the relationship between Winnie and John. Both work with Sherlock, and know how he is, which basically makes them best friends.   
> 2\. Greg is the sweetest.   
> 3\. So is Sherlock, just in a different way.   
> 4\. I realized too late that I never actually finished this chapter, so y'all are getting it raw.


	8. A Museum Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dream Team (and Greg) solve a museum murder mystery. Sort of. They don't catch the guy in this chapter.

The following day, Winnie found herself trailing after John and Sherlock into a museum, which had its entrance blocked with caution tape. 

Inside, they found a whole squad of officers, and more caution tape. Sherlock and John had come to a stop, and Winnie did as well, halting next to Sherlock. 

“Oh my God,” she said, seeing what the caution tape was surrounding. 

“Right,” Sherlock said, stepping forward and under the tape. “Come on, nothing to be afraid of. We’ve all seen dead bodies before.” John and Winnie exchange a look, and then John sighed and ducked under the tape as well to join Sherlock with the dead body on the other side. 

Winnie followed after them both, and crouched down next to Sherlock, who’d taken a spot near the head. 

“John?” he asked, glancing over the body to the doctor, who was crouch on the opposite side. 

“Woman, 30 to late forties, dead about twelve hours…” John leaned over the woman and felt around her neck on the side nearest Sherlock and Winnie. “Not killed here.” 

Winnie frowned and glanced up from the woman’s wrist, which had a watch around it. “Sorry?” she asked.

“No, if she’d been killed here, there’d be blood all over the place,” John said, gesturing to the wound on the woman’s throat. “No blood.” 

“Sherlock?” Winnie queried, looking at her employer. Sherlock was gazing down at the dead woman, his eyebrows drawn. “Ideas?” 

“Five,” he responded vacantly, pushing her over a few paces so that he could reach the woman’s wrist. 

Winnie stood up to get out of his way, and glanced around at the officers that were milling about. By now, someone should've come and shouted at them, since Greg was not there to give them clearance. 

Where was Greg, anyhow? 

Winnie frowned, and she turned around to see if she could spot him. No sign of his silver hair anywhere. It wasn't an easy thing to miss.

Slightly crestfallen, she looked down at Sherlock. “Greg called you here, didn't he?” she asked him. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock queried, not really listening. 

Winnie rolled her eyes and squatted down beside him again. “If she wasn't killed here, then where?” she asked him. 

“Her home, fifteen blocks away,” someone said from behind them. Winnie glanced over her shoulder and watched Greg approach them. “The scene of the murder was found yesterday, but not the body,” he went on, stopping next to where they were crouched beside the body. “I was going to ask Sherlock for his help in finding it, but now I'm asking for his help in finding out why she was moved.” 

“Well… it's a museum, so that's got to have some relevance, right?” John asked, straightening up. 

“Who was she?” Winnie questioned, looking up at Greg. 

“Alexandra Westwood, one of the museum staff,” Greg responded. He turned to John. “There’s your relevance.” He held out his hand, and Winnie placed hers in it. He pulled her up to her full height, and then leaned towards her. “We need to talk.”

She frowned, but nodded. Greg glanced once more at John and then down at Sherlock before leading her away from them and out from the taped off area. They walked away from the whole scene and down a hall to an exhibit room. Famous paintings, most of them recreations, hung on the walls. 

“Go on then,” Winnie said as they came to a stop. “What's this about?” 

In response, Greg turned and took her face in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. Winnie, taken aback, blinked in surprise before allowing her eyes to drift closed and returning the kiss. 

It lasted a good minute before Greg pulled back, and Winnie’s eyes opened. She gazed at him, and let out a laugh. 

“What was that for?” she asked him, reaching up and putting her hands over his, which were still cupping her cheeks. 

“I wanted a kiss that was just for the two of us,” Greg replied, pulling away entirely. 

Winnie lost her smile. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean…” Greg pulled out his mobile and held it up for her to see. On the screen was the same picture Sherlock had shown her the night before, from Sherlock himself. 

Winnie sighed, and met his gaze. “I had no idea he was watching us, Greg,” she said. “I swear.” 

“I know,” Greg responded, lowering his mobile. “And it's fine. I just…” He shrugged. “I don't want all our moments to be… documented.” 

Winnie chuckled, and stepped towards him. “No, course not,” she agreed, “but it is kind of romantic, don't you think?” 

“Maybe,” Greg sighed, “if it had been anyone but Sherlock.” Winnie gave him a look, and Greg scoffed. “All right, maybe it's fine all on its own.” 

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” Winnie concluded. Greg sighed and wrapped his arms around her waist, gazing down at her. “Don't we have a crime to solve, Detective Inspector?” she asked him. 

“Sherlock’s on the case. I think we’ll be okay for a few more minutes.” 

Winnie giggled and tilted her head upwards to meet his mouth with hers. Languid, this kiss was, not nearly as fervent as the one prior. When she pulled away, Greg inhaled and gazed at her. 

“Do you feel it?” she asked him. 

“I think so,” Greg responded, “and it's a little bit scary.” 

“Sherlock seems to think I like scary,” Winnie said, grinning. 

“Mm, and I deal with much scarier as my career,” Greg added. “We’re okay, then?”

“I should say so.” 

“Good enough for me,” Greg finished. “Do you think Sherlock’s solved it, yet?” 

“Maybe, but we should go see,” Winnie replied. She took his hand and led him back into the entrance hall of the museum. Sherlock and John were standing near the area sectioned off by tape, all though they were no longer examining the body. Winnie walked over to them, Greg trailing behind her. 

“What have we got?” she asked, coming to a stop next to them. 

“Nothing much,” Sherlock replied, “aside from the fact that she’s divorced from her husband, has joint custody of their two children, and had plans to steal them from their father and run away to France.” 

“Okay,” Winnie said, gazing at him. “That's good. Good for you. So, what, then? Her husband killed her to make sure it didn't happen, to protect his children?” 

“Likely, but not for certain,” Sherlock answered. “Still have a few things to look into first.” He turned to Lestrade, frowning when he saw the expression on his face. “Why do you look so happy?” 

Lestrade blinked a few times, and lost his grin. “What?” 

“Never mind,” Sherlock said, turning away from him again. “I need Alexandra Westwood’s address.” 

“Fine,” Greg said, clearing his throat. “I'll drive you there myself.” 

“Good idea,” Winnie said, grinning up at him. She glanced at John and Sherlock as they started to leave the museum. “Coming or not?” 

John looked at Sherlock. His friend’s gaze was fixed on Winnie and Greg, and his brows were drawn, as though he was studying a body that he hadn't gotten any information from. 

“Sherlock?” he asked as Greg and Winnie disappeared outside. “You okay?” 

“John, I think we may be facing a possible engagement,” Sherlock said. 

John blinked. “What? They've been out on one date.”

“I know, but I’m never wrong,” Sherlock said. He sighed, shoulders rising and falling. “A year, John. That's all it'll take.” 

With that, Sherlock walked out of the museum after the couple, leaving John to sigh to himself and follow. 

Once they had all piled into Greg’s car, he drove to Westwood’s home fifteen blocks away from the museum. Sherlock peered out the window as they approached, and Greg pulled up to the curb. It was a normal enough home, painted white with gray window shutters. There was something ominous about it however, but maybe it was because Sherlock knew a murder had been committed there. 

When the car was stopped, Sherlock was the first one out of it, and he was halfway up the walk to the door as the others were just closing their car doors. 

John avoided looking at Greg and Winnie as they lingered behind for a moment, murmuring to one another. He stopped beside Sherlock, who was rattling the doorknob on the front door. 

“Lestrade!” Sherlock called over his shoulder. 

“Uh, yeah, coming,” Greg replied, pulling his gaze away from Winnie’s and jogging to where he two men waited at the door. He pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket. Inside was a key ring and a woman’s wallet, both of which must have belonged to Alexandra Westwood. He used a key on the ring to unlock the door to the house, and pushed it open. 

Sherlock stepped in ahead of both him and John, and disappeared into the darkened hallway on the other side. John stared at Greg for a moment, frowning to himself. 

Greg glanced at him when he noticed. “What?” he asked. 

“N-nothing,” John sighed, and then ducked into the house after Sherlock. Winnie joined Greg, then, and looked up at him. 

“What was that?” she inquired. 

“No idea,” Greg replied, gesturing for her to enter the house. 

Immediately, it could be seen that someone had left the place in a hurry. There was a broken vase on the floor just inside the front door, no doubt knocked off the nearby table in someone’s haste to exit the building. Sherlock frowned as he took it in, and then he looked down the darkened hall. 

“What?” John asked him, seeing his expression. 

“There was water in the vase,” Sherlock responded, stepping over the puddle that was indeed on the ground before them, and deeper into the home. 

John did the same, leaving Greg and Winnie behind in the open doorway. He followed Sherlock down the hall, and winced as they neared what appeared to be the kitchen. 

“I can smell the blood already,” he said. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, merely walked ahead of him into the kitchen. John hesitated a moment before following after him, and his eyes went wide at what he found once he did. 

The entire kitchen was spattered in blood. There were red streaks all over the stainless steel appliances, and a large pool of it on the white tile floor. The white cabinets were stained with droplets. This was definitely the murder scene that they’d been looking for. 

“Jesus,” Winnie said, appearing behind the two of them. “I didn’t know a sliced neck could cause this much mess.”

“It didn’t,” Sherlock said, and both John and Winnie looked at him in surprise. “The killer drained her body of blood. You saw how pale she was.”

Winnie thought back, and indeed, in her mind’s eye, she saw the dead woman from the museum. She hadn’t noticed before, but she’d been pale white, which typically meant that a body had been drained of all its blood. 

“What kind of sick person drains someone’s blood, and then splatters it all over the kitchen?” John asked. 

“A murderer,” Sherlock said dryly, and then he reached into his coat and retrieved his magnifying glass. “I’ll need a few minutes. There’s quite a lot of blood to go over.”

John put up his hands and retreated from the kitchen. Winnie, however, remained where she was, watching as Sherlock first moved over to the refrigerator and began examining the blood streaking down it, over what looked to be a finger painting done by a young child. 

“Sherlock,” she began.

“Hm?” 

She gestured to a spot of blood on the floor. “I think this is a shoe print.”

Sherlock turned around at once, and hurried over to where she stood. She pointed to the spot again, and Sherlock crouched down beside it, holding up his magnifying glass for a moment. Winnie waited patiently for him to come to a conclusion. 

After a moment, he did, and he stood up again, before returning to the fridge. 

“Well?” Winnie demanded impatiently. 

“John’s,” Sherlock replied without looking back. 

Winnie sighed to herself, and exited the kitchen. 

John and Greg were standing in the hallway, discussing the body. “Sherlock says it was drained,” John said, and Lestrade nodded. 

“It would make sense. There were rope burns on her ankles.”

“There were?” Winnie asked, joining them. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice them,” Greg said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m surprised  _ Sherlock _ didn’t,” Winnie replied. 

“He probably didn’t need to, just knew she’d been drained of her blood right away,” John said with a shake of his head. 

“And you didn’t?” Winnie questioned, looking at him. 

John crossed his arms. “I had a suspicion. I’ve learned not to say anything if Sherlock doesn’t prompt me to.”

“That’s fair,” Winnie decided, and then she looked at Greg again. “So, what do you think?” 

“About this case?” She nodded, and he shrugged. “I’m usually wrong, but I’d say it was a jealous husband -”

“You are wrong,” Sherlock informed him, appearing from the kitchen. 

“You were barely in there for thirty seconds,” John said, following after him as he started down the hall towards the front door again.

Sherlock ignored him, and went on speaking to Greg, who had trotted behind them, Winnie at his side. “It seems as though someone broke in a killed her. The window in the kitchen is broken inward, suggesting someone broke it from the outside to get in.” 

“But… surely whoever it was had a motive,” Greg said. 

“Someone paid them to do it, obviously,” Winnie supplied, and Sherlock nodded in agreement, leading the part around to the side of the house, where the broken window was. 

“Exactly,” he said, and then he squatted down outside the window and peered around in the dirt there. “Ah, here we are.” He pushed away the branches of a bush located directly beneath the window, and gestured. “Footprint.”

“Congratulations,” John said to him as Sherlock tilted his head, taking in the footprint’s measurements. “Now we just have to find the people who match that shoe size.”

“Not just the shoe size; the brand as well,” Sherlock responded. 

“Where do you -”

“It was in the blood in the kitchen,” Sherlock said, cutting Greg off as the DI started to lean forward to look at the footprint himself. 

“I thought that was John’s footprint?” Winnie asked, and John immediately lifted his shoe to look at the bottom of it. 

“The one you saw was,” Sherlock said, rising. “The one I found was not.”

Winnie rolled her eyes. “All right, then,” she said. “What are we looking for?”

“Tricker’s, size, 11,” Sherlock answered. “Our murderer was wearing country boots.”

“Good for him,” Greg said, and then he walked away, pulling out his mobile as he did so. 

“Do we need to help him find the guy?” John asked, and Sherlock looked at Winnie. 

She glanced around momentarily, and then she glanced at him. “What?” 

“Do you want to help Lestrade find the murderer?” Sherlock queried, and Winnie blinked at him.

“Why are you asking me?” 

“Because you’re the one who’d want to spend time with him.”

Winnie smiled slightly, and crossed her arms. “I mean… it’d be  _ nice _ …”

“Then we’ll do it,” Sherlock decided. “Lestrade! Leave the rest of those idiots out of this. We have it covered!”

Winnie grinned to herself as Lestrade glared at Sherlock, and went back to the conversation he was having. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and looked at Winnie again. 

“You’ll have to train him,” he said, and Winnie let out a laugh. 

“I’ll do my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I think Sherlock is slowly warming to the idea of Winnie and Greg dating.   
> 2\. I think John is jealous that Greg and Winnie are dating, although I couldn't say why.


	9. Another Date and Three Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg and Winnie go out again, John and Sherlock fight about cigarettes, and Winnie closes a case basically as soon as it opens.

“What do you think?” Winnie asked, coming into the front room through the kitchen. Sherlock didn't even glance up, but John did a double take, blinking. 

She was wearing a white dress, tight on top but billowy in the skirt. Her face had been done up to perfection, and her hair was pulled back into a bun, with a clip holding it in place. 

John gaped at her, and Winnie rolled her eyes upwards. “Sherlock?” 

“Hm?” 

“John seems flabbergasted, but what about you?” she inquired.

“I'm not… not flabbergasted,” John insisted, clearing his throat. 

“And you know I don't get flabbergasted.” Sherlock glanced up from his mobile and glanced over her appearance. He frowned. “Still…”

Winnie flinched, and glanced down at herself. “Too much?” 

“For… where is he taking you, again?” 

“Sherlock,” John warned under his breath. 

Sherlock rose from his chair and walked over to Winnie. She gazed up at him as he approached, and he shook his head. “Not too much, but…” He reached behind her head and undid the clip holding back her hair. It fell down against her back, and Sherlock tossed the clip over his shoulder to John. “Lestrade likes your hair down.”

“Should I ask why you know that?” Winnie questioned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. “Right, never mind.” 

They could hear footsteps on the stairs, then, and there was a knock on the flat door a moment later. Winnie gave her friends a wink, and then she grabbed for her bag and moved to answer the door. 

Greg stood on the other side, looking slightly less dressed up, but considerably more fancy than he had been when Sherlock had seen him the day before. He started to speak when the door opened, but ended up choking on his words when he saw Winnie. Sherlock could see by her shift in stance that she had gotten the reaction she wanted. 

“Problem?” she asked, and Greg blinked a few times before grinning. 

“Not at all. Hi,” he said. 

“Hi,” Winnie replied, chuckling. 

“Ready to go?” Greg queried, and she nodded. “All right, then.” He glanced past her into the flat. “Should I have her back by a specific times, Mr. Holmes?” 

“Shut up,” Winnie said, turning him around by the shoulders and pushing him out of the flat ahead of her. They disappeared behind the closing door in a fit of giggles, and Sherlock paced across the room to peer out the window down onto the street. John joined him in time to see Greg pulling open the passenger door of the car for Winnie to let her in, and then jog around to the driver’s side to get in himself. 

“Damn,” John said. “Wish I had a car. That move works on any woman.” 

The car ride to Pimlico, where the restaurant and Greg’s flat were located, didn’t take long. It had been a long time since Winnie had been to that area of London, and she was impressed with how much cleaner it was than Westminster, where Baker Street was located. 

She gazed out the window on her side of the car, looking around at all the buildings, and Greg glanced over at her every few seconds, smiling to himself. 

“Win,” he began. 

“Hm?” 

“I just wanted to tell you that you look great.” 

“Thank you,” Winnie responded, chuckling. 

“I’m serious,” Greg said. 

“I know,” Winnie told him, turning away from the window. “I saw as much on your face when I opened 221B’s door.” Greg looked a bit sheepish at that, and Winnie laughed again. “Don’t worry, I don’t think Sherlock and John are going to make fun of you.” 

“Maybe not, but are you?” Greg asked her. Winnie merely glanced at him, and he exhaled. “Right.” He reached over and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. Winnie glanced down at their hands and smiled to herself before returning her attention to her window. 

It only took another five minutes for them to reach the restaurant, and Greg pulled the car up to the curb outside it before climbing out of his side and hurrying over to hers. Winnie shook her head at him as he pulled open the door and she climbed out. 

“What?” Greg asked her. 

“Nothing,” she answered. “You’re just cute, that’s all.” 

That didn’t seem to bother Greg, and he grinned a bit as Winnie slid her arm into the crook of his elbow. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said to her, heading for the doors of the restaurant. 

“Starving,” Winnie assured, waiting as he opened the door for her. 

“Good.” 

Back at 221B, John was doing his best to keep Sherlock from the cigarettes that were hidden on the mantle. He’d known that he should’ve changed the hiding place as soon as Sherlock came home, but he’d forgotten in all that had happened since then. Now, here he was, fending off a man who was considerably taller than him, and one who seriously wanted to break his record of not smoking. 

“Let me have them!” Sherlock exclaimed, trying to break away from the grip John had on him. 

“No,” John said sternly, tightening his hold. “You’re doing so well, Sherlock.” 

“Mycroft put you up to this,” Sherlock said, twisting against John’s arms. 

“Yes, he did, and he was right to,” John responded, not budging. “He knows that I can stand up to you, and refuse you!” He tossed Sherlock away from the mantle and turned around to face him. He then hurried down on his hands and knees and pressed Sherlock into the floor. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted. 

Sherlock squirmed beneath him, and Mrs. Hudson appeared through the kitchen after a moment, letting out a gasp when she saw the position the two were in. 

“Get the cigarettes and hide them,” John said to her, almost moving as Sherlock twisted in a specific direction. 

“Mrs. Hudson, you leave them where they are,” Sherlock cried. 

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands and quickly hurried over to the mantle. She pulled the cigarettes out from under the skull, where they were hidden, and she scampered out of the room as quickly as she could.

At the restaurant, Winnie and Greg were enjoying themselves with soft classical music playing in the background, underlaid by the sounds of other couples sitting at the tables around them. 

“Everything looks delicious,” Winnie commented as she gazed over her menu. 

“I don’t know about that,” Greg replied, setting his own down. 

“Why, have you been here before?” Winnie asked him, glancing up from her menu. 

“Yes, and I always get the same thing,” Greg said, not looking ashamed by the fact either. 

“What?” Winnie looked disbelieving. “Are you afraid of trying new things?” 

“No,” Greg answered earnestly. “I just know what I like.” 

Winnie smiled and returned her attention to her menu. “Your loss.” 

“What are you going to get?” Greg asked her. 

“I think I’ll try this avocado soup,” Winnie responded. “It doesn’t sound dangerous.” Greg had wrinkled his nose, and she stuck out her tongue at him. “Sod off, or I’ll get something more expensive.” 

Greg shook his head. “You can get whatever you want,” he said. “Don’t worry about the cost.” 

Winnie smiled to herself, and returned her gaze to the menu. “Big spender?” 

“Anything for you.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Winnie teased, despite the fact that she was, indeed, blushing. 

At the apartment, the quiet atmosphere of the restaurant would’ve seemed out of place. 

“AUGH!” John shouted, leaping away from Sherlock. “You  _ bit _ me!”

“You were _ suffocating _ me,” Sherlock retorted, standing up and straightening his shirt. “I had to resort to drastic measures.” 

John examined his hand, which was where Sherlock had sunk his teeth. It was bright red. “You’re a bastard,” he muttered after a moment, and climbed to his feet. When he glanced up, he saw that Sherlock had disappeared from the room. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and he hurried into the stairwell. 

The evening continued similarly for the two parties, Winnie and Greg enjoying a nice dinner while John chased Sherlock around the apartment, struggling to keep him from finding the cigarettes. 

“Sherlock, if we have to do this every time Winnie goes out on a date -!” 

“Thank you for paying,” Winnie said to Greg as he helped her out of the car on the curb outside of 221B. 

“That’s typically how a date works,” Greg said, and Winnie raised an eyebrow.

“I thought that only applied to the first date.”

“Well, if you want to start paying for yourself -” 

“No, no, that’s okay,” Winnie said, holding up her hands. “I’ll stop being polite, I suppose.”

Greg laughed, and walked her to the door. Winnie started to turn the knob, and she glanced at him before smiling slightly. “Would you -”

Before she could complete the statement, there was the sound of a window shattering, and then glass rained down from above. An object fell into the snow that remained on the sidewalk as someone screeched inhumanely from within the apart. 

“JOHN!”

Winnie exhaled to herself, and looked at Greg again. “Never mind. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said, and then she leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek before hurrying into the flat. 

Greg walked over to what had been thrown out the window, and bent down to retrieve the box of cigarettes from the snow. He frowned to himself as he turned it over in his hand, and then glanced up towards the now broken window. 

Winnie walked into 221B to the scene of Sherlock straddling John before the broken window. She paused at the sight of them, and then crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Am I interrupting something?” she queried, smirking. 

Both looked over at her immediately, and, in a very comical manner, John pushed Sherlock off of him, and then rolled away in the opposite direction, scrambling to his feet. 

“Nothing happened,” he declared. “Sherlock was trying to get his cigarettes.”

“And… how did you end up on the floor?” Winnie asked, stepping into the flat and closing the door behind her. 

“I threw them out the window, and Sherlock tackled me,” John explained, gesturing towards the broken window. 

“Uh huh…” Winnie shook her head. “Whatever you say, John.” She walked over to where Sherlock remained on the floor, and offered him her hand. “Why did you feel the need to smoke?” 

Sherlock glared at her for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and climbed to his feet on his own. “No reason,” he said, straightening his sleeves. 

Winnie frowned at him, and then at John, then she shrugged. “Whatever. I’m taking a shower.” 

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John to turn a glare to Sherlock. “You should tell her.”

“Tell her what?” Sherlock questioned, walking over to the broken window. “You’re paying to fix this.”

John exhaled, and decided there was no point. “I’m going to bed,” he decided, then he turned and exited the flat to go upstairs to his room. Sherlock remained standing in the front room for a moment, eyeing the window, and then his shoulders fell and he retreated to the couch. 

The following morning, Winnie exited Sherlock’s bedroom to the smell of cooking breakfast. That was something different. Typically, everyone made their own food (meaning John and Winnie; Sherlock didn’t eat unless they forced him to). 

Entering the kitchen, she found John standing at the oven, a frying pan on one of the stove’s burners. Inside of it was the whitish-yellow form of scrambled eggs. Sitting on the table was a platter filled with toast, as well as a coffee pot. 

“What’s going on?” Winnie asked him. “Did someone die?” 

John shook his head. “This is how I always make up a fight to Sherlock.”

Winnie furrowed her brows. “By cooking for him? But… he doesn’t eat.”

“He does when I make him food,” John answered. 

Winnie was confused, but she didn’t have anything else to say, so she shrugged to herself and settled down at the table, reaching for a piece of toast and the butter. 

After a few minutes, John turned away from the stove and dumped some scrambled eggs onto each of the three plates on the table. Winnie admired them for a moment. 

“These look pretty good,” she said, and John shrugged. 

“I do my best.” He dumped the pan into the sink, made sure the stove was off, then took a seat of his own, reaching for the pepper. 

“Where is Sherlock?” Winnie queried. 

As a response, Sherlock came bursting into the kitchen, dressing robe flying. 

“We have a case!” he declared, racing past them towards his bedroom. 

“Do we?” John asked disinterestedly, putting a forkful of eggs into his mouth. 

“Yes, and it sounds incredibly interesting,” Sherlock said, reappearing from his room, fully dressed. “Come on!” 

“Wait, where?” Winnie asked him, abandoning her breakfast in order to follow him into the front room. 

“The Thames, Winifred!” Sherlock called as he raced out of the flat. 

John joined her in the front room as Winnie sighed and pulled on her coat. “Did he say Thames, or Games?” he questioned, plucking his own coat off the rack. 

“I don't know, but I'm going to make an assumption that it was the prior,” Winnie responded. “Let’s go after him before we have to catch a separate cab.” 

She grinned at him as they trotted down the stairs. “So much for you apology breakfast, eh?”

John merely shook his head. “He probably doesn’t even remember we had a fight at all.” 

They found Sherlock holding a taxi outside, and the three of them squeezed into it before Sherlock directed the cabbie to the Thames. Winnie, shoved between Sherlock and John, glanced around at her two friends. 

“What's at the Thames?” she finally asked. 

“Drowned bodies,” Sherlock replied. 

Winnie and John exchanged a glance, and then John leaned around her a bit. “Sorry, you said bodies.” 

“More than one?” Winnie queried. “Really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. Both John and Winnie were silent, waiting for more, but Sherlock did not give them anything else. 

“Okay…” Winnie sighed, leaning back against the taxi seat cushion. 

The ride to the Thames River only took about ten minutes. When the taxi pulled up beside the dock, Winnie saw that several police cars dotted the area alongside the bank, and a section was squared off by caution tape. 

Sherlock was the first one out of the taxi and he started making his way towards the scene, hands in his pockets. Winnie trailed after him, with John a few paces behind her. 

Sherlock held up the tape for the two of them, and then they followed him towards where Greg Lestrade was standing, along with a female sergeant Winnie had only met once, by the name of Sally Donovan. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, coming to a halt. 

“What do we have?” John asked, stepping up to Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Uh… three dead bodies, found this morning by a fishing boat about… three kilometers offshore,” Lestrade answered. “Tied together by the wrists, two men and a female.” 

Winnie felt an odd cramp enter her stomach, and she swallowed thickly against the lump that formed in her throat. The bodies were lying on the sandy bank. They had been detached from one another, and now lay side by side by side. All three of them were pale white, and their eyes were closed. Pale shades of blue resonated from their cheeks and eyelids and lips. 

“Any I.D.’s?” John asked as Sherlock stepped forward and squatted down to examine the bodies. 

“Not a one,” Donovan replied. Her radio squawked, and she stepped off a few paces to talk into it.

Winnie watched Sherlock as he stepped around the bodies, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“What're you thinking, boss?” she asked him when he leaned back on his heels, putting his hands together under his chin. 

“They’re siblings,” he said. 

“What?” Lestrade asked. 

“You can tell by their features,” Sherlock replied, gesturing. “The girl is younger than the two men, and this one is younger than that one. All three have the same upturned nose and detached earlobes.” 

“Why would someone target siblings?” John asked. 

“I doubt they were killed,” Winnie said. 

“So do I,” Sherlock agreed, standing up. He walked back over to where the three others were standing. “Why, Winnie?” 

“It’s improbable that a killer would go through the trouble of locating three adult siblings, tying them together, and then  _ drowning _ them.” She shrugged. “If they  _ had _ been killed, probability says they would have been shot, or stabbed. Much more efficient for multiple victims, especially once the killer had gone through the trouble of locating all three.” She glanced up at Lestrade. “I suggest getting identification, and then finding out if parents recently died, or something similar that would call for a suicide.” 

He blinked at her. “You think they did this to themselves?” 

“Most likely,” she replied. She then shrugged. “When my grandparents learned that my grandfather was dying, they drove out of the city and killed themselves together.” She gestured to the dead siblings. “Something similar could be involved here.”

Lestrade stared at her for a moment, before looking at Sherlock. The consulting detective was smirking a bit, a hint of pride in his eyes as he watched Winnie. 

“Sorry, Greg,” Winnie said. “You probably would've figured it out for yourself.” 

“I doubt it,” Sherlock injected before Lestrade could respond. “Find out who these three were, and about recent deaths in the family, or medical history. I believe Ms. Reeves’s predictions could be correct.” He smiled a bit wider. “Keep us posted. Come on, John, Winnie.” 

He started to walk away, John glancing from Sherlock to Winnie once before going after Sherlock. Winnie remained behind for a moment, sliding her hand into Lestrade’s.

“Are we still meeting later, or do you have to deal with this mess instead?” she asked him. 

Lestrade sighed to himself, and then glanced down at her. “Probably going to have to change our plans,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Sorry.” 

“It's all right,” Winnie replied. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “We’ll talk tomorrow, ‘kay?” 

Greg smiled slightly. “Sure.” 

Winnie returned the smile and then let his hand go and ran off after her companions. Lestrade watched her go, before he exhaled heavily and gestured for the medics to cart the bodies off to the ambulance. Hopefully, Molly Hooper would be able to get identifications for the three, and then Winnie’s predictions could be proved true, or an investigation would be opened. 

Either way, he wanted to get to the Yard and get through the mess of paperwork that would follow this unpleasantness so that he and Winnie could make more plans. He knew that they’d just gone out on a date the night before, but… 

As long as Winnie wanted to keep doing things so often, he wasn’t going to argue. 

Winnie caught up with John and Sherlock at the corner, where they were trying to get a taxi. John glanced at Winnie as she jogged up to them. 

“Another date was planned for tonight? Really?” he queried. 

“It wasn’t really a date,” Winnie answered. “We were just going to go to a pub or something.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Sherlock said without looking at her, and John nodded in agreement. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea, having another one so soon? You just went out last night…”

“He might get bored, if you see him every day,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Sod off, the both of you,” Winnie muttered. “You're just jealous.”

“Of you and Graham Lestrade?” Sherlock queried. 

“No, not really,” John concluded. 

“His name is Greg, and he's very sweet,” Winnie said, her hackles rising. 

“Oh, we know,” John said. “If he wasn’t you wouldn’t want to go out with him  _ every night _ .”

Sherlock was finally able to get a taxi’s attention, and the three of them clambered into it. Once they were in, Sherlock gave an address for a restaurant, and then he looked at Winnie. 

“Impressive work today, Ms. Reeves.” 

“Thank you, boss,” Winnie replied, smiling to herself. 

“We don't know if she's right,” John pointed out. 

“Maybe not, but her guess seems more likely than the alternative,” Sherlock said. “I think Winnie has an extremely high chance of being correct in her assumptions.” 

“And what are yours, Sherlock?” Winnie asked. 

“Parents died when the three were young, and they had to grow up together, fending for themselves. They recently discovered one of them had a critical illness, and they decided to die all together, since they had never been apart.” 

John snorted a bit. “Sounds crazy, if you ask me.”

“They probably were, but so are most killers,” Sherlock responded. “You never seem to disagree with my assumptions about those.” 

“Why do you know so much?” John asked Winnie suddenly. 

“I was a criminology major,” she answered simply. “I know how crimes work, and why they're done.” She shook her head. “Three siblings, drowned? Doesn't really scream “murder” to my instincts.” 

Sherlock chuckled a bit, and John crossed his arms over his chest and turned his gaze out the window. Winnie smiled to herself and relaxed back against the taxi seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I think it's funny that John goes to some of these things, and he's sort of just there.   
> 2\. I also think it's funny that I was originally going to make this a JohnxOC fic.   
> 3\. Which means that there's some reminiscence of my love for John Watson in these chapters.   
> 4\. Winnie's past will be more revealed in the following chapter I believe; this one was just kind of hinting at it.


	10. Leading Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's just some lead up to the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... this is where things start to go sour. Just sayin'. Be prepared.

Several days later, Winnie was overseeing the final work that was being done on her flat when there was a knock at the wall behind her. She turned and grinned when she found Greg standing in the open doorway, some flowers in hand. He looked around the flat in appreciation as Winnie hurried over to him and took the flowers.

“Nice improvement from the state it was in,” he commented. Winnie ducked into the kitchen, the only room of the house that wasn't filled with workers of some kind, and filled a glass with water so that the flowers wouldn't wilt. 

Greg had followed her into the kitchen, and she beamed up at him once she was finished smelling the flowers. “How did you know lilies are my favorite?” she asked him. 

“Sherlock,” Greg answered, walking over to join her at the counter. “Should it bother me that he knows more about you than I do?” 

“I don't think so,” Winnie responded, laughing. “Sherlock knows a lot about me that I haven't told him.” 

“Right,” Greg agreed. “Sort of his talent, isn't it?” 

“I don't know if I'd call it a talent,” Winnie said, snorting. She turned to face him fully, and Greg gazed down at her as she studied his appearance. “You're not just here to visit me, are you?” she queried sadly.

“No,” Greg admitted. “I'm not. I have some business to deal with involving our favorite consultant, and then I have to get to the Yard.” 

“What kind of business?” Winnie asked him, her interest piquing. Greg merely shook his head, and she sighed in disappointment. “Fine.” 

Greg wrapped his arms around her waist in a hug, and Winnie inhaled, her arms going around his neck. 

“God, I wish I had more time with you,” he said into her neck. 

“Same here,” she replied quietly, eyes closing. 

“I'll be back as soon as I get finished talking to Sherlock,” Greg promised, “and then we can make plans.” 

“That implies you’ll be working late,” Winnie said. Greg allowed her to pull away from him, and she saw from his expression that she was right. Sighing, she backed away from him entirely and messed with the glass holding her flowers. 

“I'm sorry,” Greg said. 

“It's not your fault,” she answered, her voice soft. “We’ll figure something out in the fifteen minutes I'll have with you once you're done with Sherlock.” She glanced at her watch. “The fifteen minutes that have now become ten, since you've stayed here as long as you have.” 

“Right, going to talk to him right now,” Greg said. He kept watching her, however, until Winnie glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. He shook his head to himself and hurried out of the kitchen to go upstairs into the other apartment. He found Sherlock alone in the front room, lying on the sofa. “You wanted to see me?” he asked. 

“I did,” Sherlock replied, not sitting up. “Has Winnie talked to you about her past?” 

Greg frowned at the question. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to know if she told someone else the whole story, so that I won't have to keep attempting to pry it from her.” Sherlock met Greg’s gaze. “They trained her well.”

“Sorry, what are you talking about?” Greg asked him, confused. 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. “I suggest you check the net sometimes, Lestrade,” he said. “There’s lots of information on there that you might find interesting.” 

Greg stared at him. “Are you suggesting I look up Winnie?”

“I'm implying that you might not learn about her otherwise,” Sherlock responded. 

Greg waited for more, but none came. “Is that it?” he asked. 

“Yep,” Sherlock replied. “Just some advice.” 

Greg rolled his eyes to himself and turned around, heading back down to 221C. He passed some workers as they shuffled out of the flat, and found Winnie directing another two as they put up a new mirror in the bathroom. She noticed Greg standing outside, and he raised a hand to her. 

“That looks good,” she said to the two workers, and the she exited the bathroom and walked towards Greg. “That was quick.” 

“Oh, you know Sherlock,” Greg replied, taking her hands in his to draw them up around his neck. “In and out, no nonsense.” Winnie gave him a look, and Greg smiled. “All right, so, the occasional nonsense.” 

Winnie chuckled as Greg’s arms went around her waist again. “So… when are you free, Detective Inspector?” she inquired.

“Tomorrow night, actually,” he responded. “Isn't that a pleasant surprise?” 

“It's a lovely one, in fact,” Winnie answered, her eyes bright. “Do you plan on making the most of your free time?”

“Well, would you like to hear my plans?” Greg asked her.

“Only if you have the time,” she replied. 

“I plan on taking a beautiful woman out to dinner at a very nice restaurant by the name of Kazan, and then I think I'll take her out to the cinema to see a show,” Greg told her. 

“Mm, what a lucky lady she must be,” Winnie commented. 

“Then, if she likes, we’ll go back to my flat and have some drinks,” Greg continued, pulling Winnie closer to him. “But only if she wants to. Besides that, I haven't even asked her if she wants to do the other two things.” 

Winnie giggled. “I doubt any woman could turn you down, Detective Inspector.” 

“Well, that's good news,” he said. They gazed at one another for a moment, and then Greg chuckled to himself. “Win?” 

“Sounds like a date,” she responded, returning his grin. 

“Great,” Greg said. “I'll pick you up at six, then?” 

“All right,” Winnie answered. She then pressed a light kiss against his mouth and pulled away from him. “Now you have to get going, or you'll be late.” 

“Right, I'm off,” Greg agreed. He started for the door, but stopped right beside it, not wanting to leave. He turned to Winnie, and she waved him on, laughing. 

He grinned, and exited the flat, jogging up the stairs to go outside onto the walk. 

Sherlock watched Lestrade climb into his car from the window in 221B. When the DI had pulled away, Sherlock turned away from the door just in time to see Winnie coming into the flat, smiling happily to herself. 

“Good visit?” he asked her as she walked over to the sofa and settled down on it. 

“We finally have a date,” she replied. 

“Oh, a lovely visit, then,” Sherlock said with mock happiness. He rolled his eyes to himself and walked over to where his violin sat on his chair. “How long will I have to compose your first dance music?”

“Sherlock!” Winnie complained, but she was giggling. “Don't be absurd. You said it yourself; I can't settle down.” 

“Well, even I'm wrong, sometimes,” Sherlock murmured in response. “Where are you going on your date?” 

“We’re going to Kazan, and then we’ll go see a show and go back to his apartment,” Winnie informed him. 

“Ooh, a visit to his flat already?” 

Winnie lost the happy expression on her face, and she glared at Sherlock. “You know, you don't have to pretend to be happy for me.” 

“Who says I'm pretending?” Sherlock queried. 

“You know you can't lie to me, since you know about my past,” Winnie said to him. “Why bother trying?”

Sherlock exhaled, and he turned to face her. Winnie was sitting upright, her arms crossed. “I am happy for you,” he said, sounding as earnest as was possible for him. “I like Gavin.” 

“Greg, Sherlock,” Winnie sighed. “His name is Greg.” 

“Well, I'm not the one dating him,” Sherlock responded. Winnie had to chuckle at that. She then looked around the flat. 

“Where’s John?” 

“He went off on a date of his own, I think,” Sherlock said. “I don't really pay attention to what he says. I do know that I was talking to him for fifteen minutes after he left, however.” 

“Ah, so you're improving,” Winnie commented, only to have Sherlock shake his head. 

“I only stopped because Lestrade was coming up the stairs.” 

“Oh,” Winnie said, laughing. “Never mind, then.” She exhaled and rose from the sofa. “I'm going to go downstairs and keep an eye on everything. No sense in having a catastrophe on the last day of renovations.”

“No indeed,” Sherlock agreed. He watched Winnie leave the flat, and then he returned to his violin and picked it up. He ran his bow across the strings once to make sure it was tuned before he began playing. Winnie smiled to herself as she walked down the stairs. 

While Sherlock played his violin and Winnie oversaw the remainder of renovations on 221C, Greg Lestrade spent his day behind his desk, waiting for something to happen that would prevent his date from happening the following day. 

Oddly enough, nothing occurred. He spent his afternoon studying open case files, and determining if he wanted to bring Sherlock in on any of them. After a time, though, he realized that his time wasn't being used effectively, and he leaned back in his chair, sighing outwards. His gaze drifted towards his computer, sitting only an arm’s length away. If he wanted too, really wanted too, he could easily type Winnie’s name into the database and see what it brought up. 

That would be him, listening to Sherlock again. Did he really want to do that when it came to his personal life? 

He’d been right about Megan, and that bloody P.E. coach, though. They'd been having problems long before the affair, granted, but… perhaps Sherlock had known it then, too, and had kept quiet for Greg’s sake. Greg doubted it, of course, but it was possible. And maybe Sherlock suggesting he look up Winnie was Sherlock’s way of looking out for the both of them. Greg didn't doubt that Sherlock cared for Winnie, even if he didn't know about his own relationship to the consultant. 

Maybe Sherlock thought having someone who knew about her past would help Winnie open up a bit more. That was his way of looking out for her. 

When rationalizing it all out, Greg didn't see a lot of reason not to look her up, other than invading her personal life without permission. She'd have his head for this, until he explained it at least. Even then, though…

Greg exhaled, and scooted his chair forward so that he could reach his computer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Greg doesn't know how the Net works.  
> 2\. He also hates it when people come into his office because he knows that he's supposed to look busy, so he just pretends to be doing something on the computer until whoever it is leaves.


	11. A Date and Some Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg and Winnie discuss Winnie's previous employment.

“Sherlock, I need you to deduce where my other earring is!” Winnie said, climbing the stairs to 221B, fixing her left earring into place as she did so. 

“Bathroom floor, underneath that little lip on the bottom of the counter,” Sherlock answered from where he sat in his chair, reading the paper. 

Winnie sighed and headed for 221B’s bathroom. It took her about twenty seconds to find her right earring, and she put it into her ear as she returned to the front room. 

“How?” 

“I saw it this morning when I went in there,” Sherlock answered, setting the paper down. “It fell off the counter and rolled under there.” 

“Thank you,” Winnie said. She stood before the mirror above the fireplace and gazed at herself. She gave her hair a few final poofs with her fingers, and then leaned forward so she could see her teeth. 

“You're fine,” Sherlock said from behind her. 

“Mm.” Winnie ran her tongue across her teeth and then rolled her lips together to even out her lipstick. She turned around to face him. “You sure?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “By the fifth date, appearance should be the least of your worries.” 

Winnie scoffed. “You, of all people, would not know that.” She bounced up and down for a moment. “Ooh, I'm so excited! He’s picking me up from my  _ own _ flat, Sherlock!” 

“What a joyous occasion,” Sherlock said without much enthusiasm. 

Winnie stopped bouncing and glared at him. “Two words for you, Mr. Holmes,” she began. 

“Let me guess. Sod off?” 

“Bite me,” Winnie finished, and then she turned and flounced out of 221B. Sherlock chuckled to himself and went over to the window to wait and watch. 

John emerged from the door leading out onto the landing in the kitchen. “Date soon?” he guessed. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, watching as Lestrade’s car pulled up to the curb outside of 221 Baker St. “She’s going to his flat afterwards.” 

“Good,” John said, sinking down into his chair with a heavy sigh. “‘Bout time for them to shag, don't you think?” 

“No, John, it's not something I want to think about,” Sherlock responded, watching as Lestrade entered the building. 

John shook his head and reached for the paper. “Right, never mind, then.” 

After a few minutes, Winnie emerged from the building with Lestrade behind her. She spoke to him as they walked the short distance to his car, where Lestrade opened her door for her. He must've said something funny, because Winnie laughed before sliding into her seat. 

Sherlock watched Lestrade jog around to the other side and slip into his own seat before the car pulled away and drove off. Only then did he leave the window and walk towards the chairs. He sat down in his own, across from John, and rested his elbows on the armrests, pressing his hands together beneath his nose. 

John glanced up from the paper and frowned at Sherlock’s expression. 

“Problem?” he asked. 

“I don't know yet,” Sherlock admitted, “but something feels off.” 

John let out a “Huh”, but didn't ponder on the subject for much longer, as he’d been reading an interesting article about a gas explosion near Scotland Yard the morning prior. 

“Did you see this?” he said to Sherlock. “Gas explosion in a building not far from the Yard.” 

Sherlock’s frown deepened, his eyebrows drawing together. Something was definitely off, yes. But what was it, as why did it feel so bloody familiar?

* * *

 

Like all of their dates, this one went smoothly, first with dinner and then the show. Winnie didn't think it was very good, and Greg apologized, saying she could pick the next one.

Afterwards, Greg asked her how she felt, and Winnie replied that she did not want to return home. 

“All right,” Greg said, smiling. “My flat, then?” 

“That was the plan, wasn't it?” Winnie queried, laughing. 

So they went to Greg’s flat, and as he went to pour them some wine, Winnie pulled off her heels and gazed around the front room. It was definitely… Greg, meaning there wasn't much. He didn't need much. Just sofa, a table, and a small telly across from her. No art, no photographs… it was actually sort of sad. 

He returned from the kitchen after a few moments, holding two wine glasses. She smiled at him as he approached.

“Did you find out who the siblings were?” Winnie queried, taking the wine glass that Greg offered to her. 

“Yeah,” he answered, sitting down beside her on the sofa. “Alex, Jackson and Lucy Jacobs. A brief investigation showed that the three grew up in an orphanage, after their parents died in a car accident when they were young. We learned that Jackson found out he had lung cancer two weeks ago.” Greg took a drink of his own wine and then glanced at Winnie. “Lucy left a message with one of their friends about what they planned on doing. You were right.”

Winnie shrugged. “Sherlock helped.” 

“Yeah, well, he always does, doesn't he?” Greg asked her. Winnie merely smiled a bit and took a sip of her wine, relaxing back into the cushion of the sofa. He hesitated for a moment, and then Greg set down his wineglass. He then took hers and did the same with it. Winnie raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You took my alcohol,” she complained. 

“I was hoping we could talk a bit,” Greg started, “about… about you.” 

Winnie blinked, and she straightened up a bit, her defenses starting to raise. “Okay…” 

“It's just… Sherlock suggested I look into you, and I wasn't going to, but then…” Winnie continued to stare at him, and Greg trailed off, before sighing. “I found out about MI5, Win.” 

Immediately, Winnie’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?” 

“How you were removed from your position after a charge for espionage,” Greg replied. “I'm not… I'm not accusing you of actually having done it, but I just… I want to know more.” 

Winnie snorted and turned away from him, crossing her arms. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Winnie.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment to relax herself. It was useless putting up a wall between them; she liked Greg, and she hadn't really talked about it with anyone, not even Mariah. Maybe saying it out loud would… give her some much needed closure. 

Sighing, she rotated so that she was facing Greg fully again. He was studying her with careful brown eyes, and she saw something in them that invoked trust within her. Rarely had she gotten the feeling of trust from anyone since she'd been fired. 

“I was a Mobile Surveillance Intelligence agent,” she began, her voice even. “I'd been assigned to a case, to follow someone who we thought to be a spy for the Irish. Why the Irish would be spying on us, I still don't have any clue, but my superiors were certain of it, and, after a while, I became suspicious, too. I started to track my target in more obvious places, even decided to interact with him once or twice to learn more, which is easier for me when I actually talk to someone.” Winnie turned her eyes downwards. “It was the wrong choice.” 

“What happened?” Greg asked gently. 

“I was reported to my superiors by another agent,” Winnie answered. She heard her tone hardening as she spoke, but it was hard to remain calm when the memory made her so angry. “They based their suspicions of espionage on my part based on my nationality. Apparently, they thought I was “sympathetic towards the spy” and that I was “sharing British secrets” with him, when really, I was trying to figure out what he already knew.” She shook her head. “They wanted to arrest me, have me killed. They couldn't, though, not without solid evidence. So… they removed me from my position, told me my services would no longer be required.” 

She exhaled slowly and raised her eyes to meet Greg’s again. “That was four months ago, and you know I was jobless until I saw Sherlock’s ad. I figured it would be a good job for me, considering my experience with field work. Plus, I need some excitement in my life. Believe it or not, I've been involved in several life or death situations. Makes me happy when my life is threatened.” 

“Hm,” Greg mused, starting to grin. “Doesn't surprise me in the slightest to hear you say that.” Winnie chuckled weakly, and Greg’s smile faded. “I'm sorry that happened to you, Winnie.” 

“I think…” She trailed off, and shook her head to herself, snorting. “No, never mind.” 

“What is it?” Greg persisted. 

“It's just… it’s possible that I  _ wanted _ to be fired,” Winnie admitted. Greg looked confused, and she sighed. “Sherlock seems to believe that I fear settling down. Maybe I was getting too relaxed with where I was in my life, and fate decided it was time for me to find something else to mess with for six years or so.” 

“Maybe it won't happen again,” Greg suggested after a moment. “Maybe this time… you’ll decide to stay.” 

Winnie smiled a bit. “I hope so.” 

Greg shifted on the sofa a bit, holding out one arm in her direction. Winnie scooted closer to him and then rested herself against his chest. Greg cradled her close to him, resting his cheek against the top of her head. 

“Hold on a minute,” Greg started after a comfortable silence had enveloped them. “Does that mean that you have years of field experience as a MI5 Mobile Intelligence agent?” 

Winnie smiled sheepishly against his chest. “God save the Queen?” she asked hopefully, and Greg let out a laugh. 

“I have to ask, then,” he said. “How many languages do you speak?” 

“Three,” Winnie replied. “Well… five, if you include Latin and sign language, which… I don't, really, because one is considered a dead language, and the other isn't verbal communication.” 

“And the other two?” 

“French and Spanish.” 

“Right. Common enough, I suppose.” 

“I'm detecting sarcasm, Detective Inspector.” 

“Maybe just a little,” Greg admitted. “Hold on a moment.” He shifted her off of him and then laid down on his back, exhaling heavily. “Long week,” he explained to Winnie, seeing her expression, and then gestured with his hand. “Come on.” 

Winnie scooted across the sofa to him, and relaxed on top of him. Greg put his arms around her and leaned up a bit so that he could kiss the top of her head. 

“I'm glad you told me, Win,” he said after a moment. 

“I think I need to ask Sherlock how he knew,” Winnie responded, her eyes closed and most of her attention on the soothing circles Greg was rubbing against her back. 

“Sherlock knows a lot of things,” Greg said. “Probably figured you out based on your own knowledge.” 

“Yeah,” Winnie admitted, cuddling closer to him. “You're probably right.” 

The motion of Greg’s hand, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest was lulling her into slumber. Her eyes closed, and she let out a quiet breath as she relaxed into sleep. 

Greg smiled to himself when he realized that Winnie had fallen asleep, and he leaned his head back against the arm of the sofa, feeling pretty drowsy himself. He allowed his own eyes to close, and soon, both of them were fast asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I went through this period where I really wanted to be a spy because I thought they were super cool.   
> 2\. I still really like Winnie and Greg as a couple.   
> 3\. I also really like the relationship between Winnie, Sherlock, and John.


End file.
